


Ballet of the Hearts

by OakwoodOuroboros



Category: In a Heartbeat (Short Film)
Genre: Classical Musicians, M/M, Sherwin has low self esteem, both boys are people of few words, european conservatoire AU, music academy au, solo pianist Jonathan, triangle player Sherwin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2018-12-12 07:20:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11732247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OakwoodOuroboros/pseuds/OakwoodOuroboros
Summary: Sherwin's life revolved around music. He pictured his lungs as the intricate piping of a tuba, his vocal chords as a violin's strings, the beating of his heart like a kickdrum, the workings of his brain as that of a piece of sheet music, the all animated by the soaring passion of a thousand-string orchestra.To express his this, he was confined to the triangle; not that it bothered him, every single sacrifice he made being worth it in the end. The thrill of the grand orchestra, as well as the one of maybe catching sight of the genius pianist Jonathan Sharma were well worth a bit of ostracisation and harsh competitiveness, right?





	1. Prolog

**Author's Note:**

> I grew up surrounded by classical music, and I’ve always adored pianists, so this AU had to come into existence at a moment or another. I hope you enjoy it and sort of understand what’s going on here. I’ve never been to a great musical academy like the one described here because I’ve always been mediocre, but I’ve got friends and teachers who have told me about it all, so things here should be relatively accurate. Please do tell me if you see any mistakes though.  
> Dedicated to [brocsox](https://brocsox.tumblr.com/) on tumblr who encouraged me along with this idea and my pianist friend (A. M-L). Good luck getting that musical further education thingy!
> 
> Also, if you’re wondering what the piece described in this first chapter is (or else if you want a soundtrack to listen to while reading this), it’s Ravel’s Concerto for the Left Hand. Notoriously difficult for pianists for obvious reasons, and a piece I like a lot (not because it meant I got nearly-full marks in that exam, no, of course not ;).

The jacket he was wearing was warm, there was no doubt about that. He had come here early today, and had set up hours before any of the other musicians had appeared, even the important ones; it was, after all, the first time that he was to play in front of a public so large. Of course, he would be indistinguishable apart from his bright shock of hair in the middle of the more general chestnut-brown and blond of the people surrounding him, but he was here. He was the youngest member of the Orchestra of the City of Newgate, and today was the day that this was going to concretise, an event that he will be telling the next generation when he was older.

However, this was not the real reason for the thrill that was currently heating him from head to toe in a full-body blush that made his suit even more stuffy than it should have been in the darkened theatre.

The strings had just about finished off tuning their instruments in the usual melodious cacophony that was truly theirs, when the conductor stepped up to take his place at the pulpit, and the room exploded into applause.

The man bowed, then turned to shake hands with the first violinist, a stout lady that the boy wasn’t sure he had ever seen smile. The applause died down, then the one Sherwin had been waiting for, the one he had sacrificed so much for in the last few years, walked up the steps to access the slightly raised platform.

Jonathan, second youngest person to be playing in the formation today, even though every single leaflet advertising the event would say otherwise. Sherwin, as a humble percussionist, relegated to the very back of the orchestral formation, didn’t count. But that didn’t matter; the redhead happily let the mistake pass without comment. They were right to give Jonathan all the glory, because he deserved it.

Up on the conductor’s stand, Jonathan waved at the crowd, probably flashing one of his dazzling smiles as he did. Sherwin couldn’t see his face, but he still felt his heart stutter in his chest at the perfect, friendly movement that made the crowd’s applause double in intensity. It was a breath of fresh air in the usually morose and antisocial world of the orchestra, a friendliness that everyone appreciated and that made Jonathan just that little bit more likeable, be it on or offstage.

He made his way down to take place at the immense grand piano sitting there for him, a spotlight having been directed his way by the light technicians. From where he was, Sherwin could now see half of his face, the harsh lighting accenting his chin, nose, and making the striking blue of his eyes stand out even more. Sherwin swallowed thickly, then, as if on cue, the conductor raised his hands and the music started.

It was a long piece, full of melancholy and starting out slow and nearly imperceptible as the lower register strings emerged from the void of silence. Then, the woodwinds joined in, offering up the first theme and one of the melodies that was going to be repeated throughout the piece. They exchanged, the horns, lower range woodwinds, in an indubitably dark sequence that sent shivers up and down Sherwin’s spine. His eyes were still on Jonathan though; the light that had previously been illuminating him was now dimmed, but he could still make out the set of his face: it cramped in the painful moments, then relaxed when the music flowed more freely, easily, the darkness in it attenuated for a second before it yet again took on the post-war feel to it that was so characteristic of the composer.

It got to the moment when the music swelled, the intensity of it escalating dramatically, and Sherwin could see Jonathan let out a shuddering breath at the exact moment he himself did. It was his moment now. This was the time he couldn’t mess up.

And he didn’t. It was perfect. The four first chords sounded like gunshots in the silence that the orchestra had left behind it, and they indeed did hit Sherwin’s chest like bullets would. Even if it had been his turn to play, he wouldn’t have been able to. Right now, he was stunned, unable to move nor to tear his eyes away from the boy at the piano.

He played with his eyes closed. He had no use for sheet music, no use for a page-turner. He had incorporated every single note into his memory, etched into his very soul. He played with such grace, a passion that showed and vibrated through his entire body, waves coming off and capturing the attention of everyone in the room. He was mesmerising. He was perfect. In that moment, the brief time he was accorded to play alone before the orchestra came along and joined him and conversed in the way the ink and paper demanded they do, he was not an entity apart from what he was playing.

He literally was the music.

And Sherwin was unconditionally in love with music.


	2. Act 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reader soundtrack for this chapter: Metamorphosis, by Philip Glass.

“Wait, you mean you don’t have perfect pitch?”

Sherwin had been asked the question before, but he was still just as embarrassed to answer it. So he didn’t, simply shaking his head and looking away.

“Tch, so what are you doing here then?”

The teenager who had just spoken to him, a tall violinist, quite close to him age-wise even though he was without any doubt older, fortunately left it at that and walked off to join his group of friends. The redhead let out a sigh of relief, not half happy to get away from social interaction of any kind.

To the general public, Sherwin had maybe been able to fly under the radar, but he had in fact attracted the attention of a lot of people at the academy. He had, after all, managed to get into the orchestra one way or another, and rumours flew from one end of the building to the other, some more unsavoury than others; his whole history was dug up, people trying to find out where his parents had found the money to bribe the conductor. No one had thought for a second that maybe all the hard work he put into his music studies had come to fruition.

However, and it pained Sherwin to admit this, but they were right. There was a bribe involved, but that had been solely his business. There was no reason to drag his family into it as well.

He walked the few extra steps to his locker, frowning when he found that the lock didn’t turn the way it should, before noticing the mint-green gum stuck in the mechanism. A few sniggers erupted behind him, and Sherwin turned on his heels, immediately defensive. Indeed, it was that violinist and a group of friends, scoffing turning into roaring laughter as they moved further on down the corridor.

The redhead sighed and pulled out a tissue paper, a packet of which he carried around for such incidents, and worked on cleaning up his already rather defaced locker. He had never been able to get rid of all the permanent marker despite his efforts, so once he was finished with the gum, he scrapped half-heartedly at the messages that some people found “funny” to write on the plain metal.

An easy target. That’s how people saw him, anyway. He was young, very young to be in the academy; he was despondent and shy, and to top that all off he was a percussionist. And now, he was the youngest kid to have ever played in the official orchestra. Of course, his mum was thrilled, and so were his big sister and little brother (he himself being an aspiring musician), but all this would stop if they ever got wind of what was going on. If they knew of the jealousy, of the back-stabbing, perverse attitude of some students, he would be pulled from the school immediately.

His hand halted its picking, just for a second, just long enough to let the horrifying thought leave his mind and be replaced by more rational fears. No, no one will ever know. Just like no one will ever know the real reason why he was investing so much time and energy into the academy in the first place, apart for his passion for music of course. No, they couldn’t know. They couldn’t know that he had indeed bribed the conductor, had faced possible expulsion, only to see him play.

At this thought, a smile unconsciously made its way on Sherwin’s face, as wonky as it ever was whenever he thought of his secret crush.

Jonathan Sharma. A child prodigy, a rising star… the headlines in the newspapers following the boy’s first concert were filled only with praise for the solo pianist, barely fourteen and already among the greats. His performance had stunned everyone and nobody refrained from being vocal about it. Nabody, that is, except for Sherwin. Even if he did work up the courage to partake in such things, he was sure that his weak voice would be lost among the mass, and besides, he was too shy. That was alright though. He would happily observe from the sidelines, not tainting the pianist’s honour or anything with too close a presence, simply watching him from a distance. Watching him play was what made everything worthwhile. Simply observing the movement of his whole body as his fingers jumped from the lower to the higher keys of the piano, offering himself up as he did to the music in a way that most classical musicians had forgotten from being bent too far over their pulpits and watching the rigid movement of the conductor’s stick rather than the one of their own hearts.

Sherwin shook himself, awakening to the fact that he had yet again become too lost in his thoughts and should get his books together for afternoon classes, so he did, pulling the needed materials out of the locker, before closing it again and heading down the corridor.

Musical theory was something he struggled with. Anything to do with rhythm was no problem, of course -he was a percussionist after all- but as soon as the second dimension that were notes came into the game, his real weakness was revealed. The rest of the class had perfect pitch to rely on, whilst he only had his memory and hours upon hours of interval training, all of which kept him at about the same level as the rest of the students. But even so, it wasn’t rare for him to be called out for mixing up an A and a C, or something alike.

However, today they had some sort of singing practice scheduled, which was fine by him. He remembered sung melodies and didn’t need the sheet music, provided he had heard the piece beforehand. He got to the room, and after warm-ups, he took his usual position at the very back at the class.

Not once in his life had he used his voice’s full potential when singing, keeping to a range where he wouldn’t possibly be heard, trying with all his might to match the pitches of the others. Even though he actually did enjoy it, he preferred to only do the minimum required when it came to choir practice. Surely, he would feel the ‘lift’ of the music more easily if he did put his whole heart into it, but he didn’t. He was a percussionist. His place was as more of a listener than anything else, he could never have the pretension of actually thinking of _participating_ in such a grand thing that only the ones with the main theme, the soloists, could contribute to.

The Latin came out barely above a whisper whilst the girl in front of him covered him by belting out the same tune decibels louder than he did. Really, it was beautiful. The choir was so in sync, so perfect, and even though the redhead couldn’t hear himself above the sound of the accompanying piano and the rest of the singing students, he still felt the thrum of the music pierce through his chest and make his heart flutter and fly. At a moment, he stopped singing just to better appreciate the others, even forgetting to mouth the words, but was soon back on track when the teacher looked his way with a raised eyebrow.

He exited the lesson feeling uplifted, not being able to help the small smile that found its way onto his face. Sherwin was tired, and he really would have liked to go back home, eat his meal and get into bed to savour the afterglow of yet another music-filled day, but he could not. He had a last visit to pay, and besides, if he were to sleep anywhere tonight it would be in the uncomfortable bed that the boarding school provided him. Still, the fact was that he couldn’t avoid this evening’s commitment. So, as discreetly as possible, he hid in the niche behind one of the statues that lined the corridors of the great academy and waited for the footsteps and chatter of students to decrease. He glanced at his watch when only a few distant sounds of musicians still practising their instruments in private classrooms echoed throughout the building, checking to see whether he was on time, then carefully climbed down from his hiding spot.

Even though the conductor didn’t live in the building itself, he still had some private quarters here, and the boy had been asked to meet him there in order to complete his end of the deal he had struck with the wizened musician. Sherwin arrived in front of the door that sported the eminent man’s name and gulped, hand hovering over the upper wooden panel before knocking. He had absolutely no idea what to expect, but a week ago, that had not seemed important. As soon as he had heard that the usual triangle player had been hospitalised following some sort of incident concerning forks and a photocopier, he had jumped at the opportunity, had been the first to present himself to the man’s door with his proposition on his lips and hope in his eyes. He hadn’t hesitated a second before accepting his vague terms and conditions, simply overwhelmed with the fact that he had been given the chance to watch Jonathan Sharma play.

Now, although he didn’t regret his decision, he was starting to have second thoughts. The infinity of things that could go wrong was overwhelming. But somehow, he still managed to work up the courage to not bolt when the man mumbled ‘Enter’, and push down on the door handle.

The room wasn’t well lit at all. Actually, the only source of light was the small desk-lamp, nothing more than a torch really, which cut through the room’s shadows and made the white of sheet music stand out starkly against the dark wood of the desk. The conductor’s face was also cast in the lighting, although it was harsh and illuminated every nook and cranny of his face like a Halloween lantern would. He waited, the man noting something in the margin of the paper and mumbling something incomprehensible under his breath before giving his undivided attention to Sherwin.

“Close that door, young man, the corridor’s air is chilly.”

The redhead did as he was told, but not without feeling a little apprehensive as he did. His only exit was now cut off, and the fact that the door opened towards the inside of the room just put an extra edge to his worry. Wasn’t that against fire regulations?

“Come a little closer, I can’t see you from where I’m sitting.”

He did as he was told. The man was older than he had looked onstage, or when he had hastily struck that deal. Or maybe it was the light. Yes, definitely the light.

“You are the one who wanted to play in the big orchestra. It’s odd though… You don’t seem to be the kind of person to do such a thing merely to flatter your own ego. You’re quite shy really, aren’t you?”

Currently, he wasn’t shy: terrified, rather. The redhead took a step back, eyes screwed to the floor, shaking his head in a weak attempt to disprove the obvious. The laughter that suddenly erupted and filled the room had him jumping and looking back up to the conductor in panic.

“Really, a quiet percussionist?” chuckled the man once his peals had died down somewhat. “This is the weirdest thing that I’ve seen since I found out that Mozart had written for the flute! Fair enough, I’ll let you have that one. How about we get to this deal then, hmm?”

Sherwin didn’t move, even holding his breath as he waited for the sentence to fall. This was going to be awful. This man wouldn’t have a nobody play in the concert hall unless he expected something in return that was beyond horrifying, and even though the redhead was quite happy to face whatever he had in stock for him, it didn’t stop the fact that he was paralysed in fear at the prospect.

“Go over next door and organise all the sheet music there by composer’s name. You’ll be dismissed at eleven, but before that I want you to make a cup of tea for me, so plan accordingly. Good luck, young man.”

Cracking open an eyelid, Sherwin looked at the man in disbelief as he went back to his annotations. Was he serious? Was this the only task that he was going to be given, or was there more than met the eye in what the old man had just told him?

A few seconds passed, and the conductor looked up again from the piece of sheet music that he was examining, now a slight frown furrowing his brow.

“So? Are you going to get to it, or do I have to find a shovel to uproot you?”

Sherwin jumped into action immediately, tripping over a pile of something indistinguishable in the darkness before reaching the faint outline of the door. He fumbled for the handle, actioned it, then searched with a blind hand on the other side for the light switch to illuminate the room beyond.

When he finally found it, and that the lazy old bulb had finished flickering to life (that, the redhead reflected, _definitely_ is a fire hazard), he could only gasp at the contents of the room beyond. He now better understood why the man didn’t live in this place. Sure, it was huge and might have made a very nice home once all the mouldings had been dusted off and the cobwebs taken down, but the main reason for it not being so were the stacks upon stacks of boxes, folders, and loose pieces of paper that piled up so tall as to tickle the very high ceiling.

There was nothing to it, the job would not get done by staring at it, he thought, effectively shaking himself out of his own agape state to start on the task at hand. In anticipation, he took off the blue sweater shirt which was part of the academy’s uniform, then pulled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. He tried to size up the work, to determine which was the best place to start off with, but finding none that was obviously less messy than another, he started clearing away one side of a wall at random.

Sherwin didn’t see the time pass as he worked, uncovering bare shelves beyond the stacked boxes on which he started organising what he could put his hands on. The redhead boy was too lost in his thoughts, thinking over random things.

For instance, why was this room so messy? At first, he would have thought that this man was a hoarder, but he willingly let Sherwin touch and organise his mess as he saw fit, only giving him a rather vague guideline to do so. One thing that he had learned from his dear sister’s daytime TV habits were that hoarders weren’t usually so lax about such things. It was only as he opened up one of a job-lot of ancient-looking boxes that he realised that this wasn’t merely the conductor’s collection. Here were amassed years upon years’ worth of sheet-music, some dusty old papers even appearing to be hand-written. The redhead had discovered a secret library that very little people probably had the knowledge of, and he was here, tasked to act as librarian and make all these papers accessible to any person who would be allowed to use them. Jonathan would probably love to come here, Sherwin thought offhandedly.

Jonathan.

For a second, the boy halted in his work. This proved to be a mistake, as all the exhaustion that he had accumulated throughout the day, and that now only redoubled after the many hours of hard lifting work slammed into him at once like a battering ram. He sat down heavily on a bunch of boxes, not even minding the worrying ‘crunch’ that they made as he shifted his weight onto them. Tiredly, he let his eyes drift to his watch, where the hands indicated that he only had ten minutes left before he was off duty. He took a second, then lifted himself off his seat, searching with heavy eye-lids and a yawn for the teapot, or whatever the man used for his brew.

After several minutes of fruitless searching, he came across a door, half hidden behind some rotting cardboard boxes. It was a bit of a squeeze, but he finally emerged into a bathroom, the only place which seemed normal and lived-in, even having a towel hanging from a rail and some soap in a little dish next to the sink. There, the redhead finally caught sight of an electric kettle, some milk chilling in the shower, and sugar as well as teabags he found on the highest shelf in the sink’s mirrored cabinet, probably to keep them as far away from the humidity as possible.

More and more yawns escaped him as he put the water on to boil, and was even startled out of a light slumber when the kettle whistled, alerting him to the fact that the tea was now ready. Elbowing his way out of the room with a fully ladden platter was not easy, but in the end he managed to only spill a little of the boiling brew, which was quickly soaked up by the kitchen towel that he had thought to line the platter with beforehand anyway. The man hadn’t moved from his position since he had left him, same hooded eyes raising, then dropping back to his work when Sherwin made his presence known.

“Hmm, this is all right, I guess,” he said after having stirred his desired amount of milk and sugar into his cup. “You can go back home now, but you will be required to come here every weekday for the same amount of time until everything is properly put away. Yes, even in the holidays. I’m not going to go easy on you because you’re a schoolboy, young man.”

Sherwin bowed his head in acceptance. It was going to be difficult, but now he had a set place in the orchestra; that is, until the other percussionist recovered from his injuries. He did feel bad for the poor man, but he couldn’t deny that the bad luck of some made the day of others. And for once, he was the one on the good end of the saying.

The redhead turned to leave, fingers wrapped around the door handle and ready to push down on it when he was interrupted by a grunt. He turned to see what the man wanted of him, whether he was going to give him some sort of sage advice before leaving, or maybe just a comment about the tea he had served up, but what he said again froze Sherwin in the deer-in-the-headlights position that he had assumed earlier on, when he had first entered the room.

“I do wonder why you so desperately wanted to be a part of that performance though… We could have done just as well with one of the multi-speciality musicians that we have hanging around. You’ll have to tell me one day.”

He couldn’t. There was no way he was going to tell this man that he wanted to attend Jonathan’s first performance on the big stage, that he wouldn’t have been able to as part of the public because his family just couldn’t afford any extra expenses, and that really, being part of the mass was the only way to fully appreciate the musical experience, in his opinion. He relaxed, breathing returning to normal, and exited the room without a word. He wasn’t meaning to be rude as he did so, but there was the risk that his voice might crack or that he might say something stupid. Best was to stay quiet. That was the lesson he had learned as soon as he had entered the academy. Let only your instrument be heard, not your thoughts or opinions.

The corridors were dark, only illuminated by the harsh, washed-out light of moonbeams streaming through the windows, a slight kenopsic feel to it all. The statues lining the miles of wood-panelled corridors looked down on him, be they great composer’s busts or full-body representations of Greek deities, unseeing eyes watching him even though there was no threat that could possibly be posed by them.

Of course, this was all plenty creepy, but the worst was the silence. Sherwin had never been out this late in the academy, and the constant, or at least faint, sound of musicians was usually enough to give life to the place. Without their reassuring presence, all the humanity felt sucked out, leaving it as an abandoned husk of a building.

The redhead couldn’t fill the silence of the halls with humming, as a weight had somehow settled on his throat: maybe it was all the singing earlier on, or maybe the dust he had breathed in from handling all those ageing manuscripts, but most likely it was pure and simple fear of the unknown. So, to quell his need to run and get out of the building as quickly as possible, he imagined a simple melody, using the sound of his echoing footsteps on the floor as a metronome. First, he started off with percussion, as it was what he was used to, making sure to give the triangle a good part, an interesting rhythm to play instead of punctuation as it was usually used for; then, he added on the cellos, the violas, then the violins, all of them with dull, repetitive melodies, maybe out of spite for the day’s earlier prank. Bassoons joined in, gave the piece richness; flutes, horns, clarinets, and finally a trumpet for punctuation. Subconsciously, he incorporated a slide trombone in there at some point, as well as a glockenspiel, but decided to leave them be. They added character to the music, a jazzy feel that Sherwin could only admit he loved.

Then, as a final touch, like the cherry on the cake, he made up the melody for piano solo.

Sherwin knew that he had done everything wrong: he had started his composing with the bass, rather than working down from the main theme, but he liked it that way. In mere minutes he had made up a half-hour concerto, kept the piano interesting for the whole length of the piece, but without forgetting to make every single instrument shine in its own singular glory at one point or another. All, apart for the violins, that is. They were just there as a formality.

He had effectively filled the space in his head with his own personal music, something he sometimes did when he was feeling down, or was a little bored in class and could afford to be on autopilot for a while. The beat of his shoes against the floorboards helped, but wasn’t really that necessary now that he had the soaring of the trumpets (two more had been added on as an afterthought), the thrumming, slightly jazzy slides of the cellos, and of course, the perfect, clear sound of the piano, every note filling the space like a heavy rain in the first movement, one of soft, downy feathers in the second, and finally, of harsh shards of broken glass in the third. There, the notes were now following each other, clashing in a cacophony that still remained perfectly coordinated, filling him with thrill as the instruments overlapped and raced towards the grand finale, and…

The boy stopped, suddenly jarred out of his thoughts as his ears picked up on something amiss in the previously perfectly quiet corridors. All the music that had previously filled him fled, only leaving enough space in his mind for the straining of his ears. He waited for a few seconds before catching it again. Yes, there it was. In the distance, there was a single piano playing. The mute had been activated, obviously, but it was still there.

That was when Sherwin reflected that he had nothing to lose after all. It may be late, but nobody would be waiting for him over at the boarding school that he attended every morning and early afternoon: the night-time attendants were probably all asleep by now, and he did have special authorisation to stay out as long as he wanted, due to concerts and the such, as long as he still came into school before the next morning with a written excuse note from one of his teachers. He could easily forge one; he had resorted to that before when his teachers had refused to write one for him. He was tired, sure, but it wasn’t weighing down on him as it had been before. And it would really, really cheer him up to watch a pianist play for a few minutes.

So, he slowly made his way towards the source of the music, being careful at every corridor intersection to not take a wrong turn and get lost. He was now in one of the less-frequented parts of the building, the corridors narrowing, the ceiling lowering and the statues and other ornamentations getting sparser. He turned a corner, and was now certain of where the music was coming from, the only ajar door he had seen since he had left the conductor’s office revealing of a presence. Rays of moonlight escaped along with the music: repetitive, anxious in the right hand, a little more eager in the left one, a continuous bass that interrupted itself from time to time to leave the space for the higher melody to slow and punctuate the sentence; at others, on the contrary, it became a little faster, encouraging the main theme onwards for a few seconds, before it fell back into the brooding state it originally held.

Sherwin got a little closer, curious as to whom the person who was playing at such an advanced hour could be; maybe they could let him pull up a chair, sit next to them, before he finally had to leave. Making sure to not let the floorboards creak under his footsteps, he made his way forward and peaked around the edge of the door.

The second he did so, he froze.

The room was pretty bare, probably used by ballet dancers, as there was only one piano in the corner and one of the walls was lined with old, misty mirrors. On the opposite side of the room, bars were screwed to the wood panelling, confirming what the redhead had thought at first. But of course, this wasn’t what had caught his attention.

There, sitting at the piano, eyes half-lidded that still managed to shine without problem like sapphires in the darkness, was Jonathan Sharma. Sherwin quickly but carefully turned and flattened his back against the wall, trying to contain his heart as it beat a mile a minute against the inside of his ribcage. If he had simply lifted his head, the other boy would have surely caught sight of him. The redhead swallowed thickly, preparing himself to leave, but stopped before the logical decision had time to reach his legs and bring him back to his dormitory.

This was a chance of a lifetime. It was very rare for anyone to ever catch sight of the academy’s protégé, let alone watch him work alone like this. Sherwin might see him from time to time at concerts, but never this close up, and the occasions would probably be so rare and far apart…

His decision was made. Huddling in the hall’s shadows, Sherwin settled down, leaning against the wall and watched his crush play.

From what he could see, there was no sheet music on the stand in front of him, which in itself wasn’t surprising. Whenever the boy was seen walking the corridors, always accompanied by his thriving fanclub mainly comprised of ballet dancers, he was spinning an apple like a basketball with his right hand, with eyes glued to a piece of sheet music in his left. They rarely detached from the paper, reading it as if it were a thrilling novel that he just couldn’t set down, absorbing every last detail and committing it to his perfect, flawless memory.

Now though, his eyes looked off into the middle distance, unfocussed, just like the day before. The performance in itself was flawless, the swells and dips in the music following each other smoothly on the ancient piano despite the mute. Sherwin didn’t recognise the piece, but he couldn’t help but accord his breathing, and probably his heartbeat, to the one of the music. All three of them were in sync. For a few minutes, he and Jonathan were linked to the music, and therefore to each other, even though one of them was unsuspecting of this connection. The first movement ended, and despite the music dying and leaving way to silence, the bond remained for a few seconds later, just enough for both of them to take an inspiration at once, before Jonathan started on the second part.

It was just as brooding, just as melancholy, but it made better use of the higher range of notes, nearly abandoning the left side of the keyboard in favour of the middle and right ones. Maybe it was his imagination, but Sherwin might have felt a tear trace down his cheek, images of ruins, of great empires now forgotten, of an Atlantis of sorts, flashed through his mind. Somehow, Jonathan managed to convey all this perfectly, the moonlit school fading to a mysterious, silent and vine-infested image to take its place.

Then, unexpectedly, as he was drifting off, maybe into a dream and possibly into sleep, the music took an unexpected leap forward, sudden loud and rapid notes taking the place of the lulling ones that he had previously been listening to. He practically leaped out of his skin and his heart out of his chest, managing to hold back the cry that had tried to climb out of his throat, but not the stumble forward and the subsequent fall.

The redhead gasped as he hit the ground, all the air thrown from his lungs as he fell to the floorboards like a sack of potatoes. The music was gone, as if escaped through the window like a shy bird. Sherwin didn’t dare raise his head, even once he had regained his breath, preferring to remain face-down rather than meet Jonathan’s gaze.

Sherwin tensed when finally something disturbed the silence. Something creaked, either the floorboards or the piano stool, followed by the tap of shoes on wood. It got closer, and by the time it stopped, the redhead could feel the presence of someone close by. Slowly, he lifted his head (because they weren’t going to stay like that all night), prudently letting his eyes move their way up the person standing next to him. When he got to his face, he felt a harsh blush spread from the tips of his ears to the bridge of his nose, as for the first time ever his eyes caught with the ones he had admired so many times before from a safe distance. There was no way he was going to look away from them now. Ever.

But he did, overcome with embarrassment at staring at someone for so long, with also a little guilt thrown in there somewhere. He was being selfish, disturbing Jonathan’s practice with his very presence. He was unworthy of those eyes upon him.

This feeling only redoubled when his gaze slid away from his, just to find the boy’s lips curled into a kind smile, then to the hand that he was offering him. It would seem impolite to not take it now, but if he did, he might taint his perfection. In the end, he simply smiled his wavy smile that his mother had more than once described as ‘awkward’ and his sister as ‘adorable’ and took hold of the pianist’s surprisingly short fingers, who pulled him up with ease.

For a second, he thought that Jonathan might let go just at the critical moment before he regained his full balance, that the compassionate smile was going to turn into a smirk, that he might get a kick to the gut once he was back down on the floor for his insolence. But much to his surprise, he didn’t; he remained calm and quiet, and Sherwin wondered for a second whether he had actually fallen asleep on those boxes when he had sat down earlier on, or whether all this was maybe a hazy product of his exhaustion. But no, because when he represented him in his mind, Jonathan was never this crisp and clear, and he couldn’t have invented that little smile that he had never seen him use ever before.

“Are you alright?”

He had spoken. Sherwin stood agape for a few seconds, before shaking himself and nodding. There, again that smile, and the little creases at the corners of his eyes that indicated that he was reassured.

“You are Sherwin, the youngest in the orchestra,” he said, the remark not questioning, simply stating the facts. There wasn’t anything that could have stunned the redhead more, however, because how could have he ever known of him beforehand? How did a personality such as he even suspect the existence of a musical failure such as himself, sum all, a nobody? Not being able to do much more, he pursed his lips, lowered his yet again staring gaze and nodded. When he looked back up, Jonathan appeared just as relaxed as he had earlier on, and was turning back towards the piano, back to his work…

“Can I stay?”

The words were out of his mouth before he had time to stop them, and even though they were nothing more than a whisper, they still resonated through the dance room as loudly as if they had been shouted. Jonathan stopped, turned Sherwin’s way, expressionless, and this time the redhead boy really was ready to bolt, or else to sink into the ground and never be seen again.

The nod and accompanying smile very nearly made him lose balance and join the floor for the second time tonight. Hesitantly, he stepped forward, closer to the piano where Jonathan was now sat, glancing around for a second chair, a stool, anything, but Jonathan only beckoned him over, smiling and patting the stool that he had scooted to one end of so as to leave him enough space to sit down.

Really, this was tempting fate. Sherwin would have much rather left before the damage was done, but when Jonathan insisted, smile intensifying and patting the worn velvet next to him insistently, he obliged and took his seat, being careful to only take up as little place as possible, hanging off the edge of the stool. He just couldn’t say no to those eyes.

Without a word, Jonathan started where he had left off again, at the more intense, rapid part of the piece he had been playing. Sherwin still didn’t know its name, but that didn’t matter; he was hypnotised by the rapid to-and-fro of the pianist’s hands across the ebony and ivory, never having been able to observe anyone play at the majestic instrument this close up before. Nearly instantly, the image he had created himself, the one of the lost Atlantis-like city, came back to him, but now, he could see the birds flying through the ruins, the snakes slithering under rocks at their approach, the small deer and the trickling source of crystal-clear water. This was a lost empire, surely, but from this had risen new life, he now saw. He was glad to have stayed for this part of the musical fresco. There was more than melancholy to this world.

But something was still amiss. He puzzled over it while watching the hands and fingers shadow over the keys, sinking as Jonathan passed over them, only to regain their position not even a microsecond later. Sherwin was alone in this landscape. Jonathan needed to be there as well.

In his head, he created a melody that he intertwined with the one that was being played. It used a lot of the bass side of the keyboard, not anything particularly joyous, as it would clash with the music being played, but he tried his best to capture his blue eyes, the shine of his hair, that small, kind smile, those soft pianist fingers…

There it was. The melody took form, twining as he had planned it would with the original, even though the latter faded off into the background somewhat. Everything was right now. It was weird though, the redhead thought in a detached manner, certain notes didn’t quite correspond to the ones that he had going through his head…

He jumped up from the stool, as if shocked by some electrical current. No, he hadn’t just done that, hadn’t he? But the way Jonathan was looking at him proved that yes indeed, he had.

All musicians at the academy were required to play the piano, even if they couldn’t do so professionally. It was related to the way they taught musical theory. Sherwin had never been particularly good, but he knew where most of the notes and what they sounded like, and of course interval training had made him a little more skilled than he thought he ever would be. So of course, what was more natural than to play out whatever was going through his head when faced with the means to do so?

He ran from the room, ignoring the ‘Wait!’ that the other boy threw his way. His feet pounded their way down the corridor, his heart in his throat and pounding in his ears, but not quite loud enough to drown out his thoughts. What had he been thinking? He hadn’t been thinking, that was the problem. He had committed one of the worst crimes possible against a musician, that is to touch their instrument without permission. But the offense went deeper than that. The impromptu 4-hand had been an incredibly intimate experience, not only because they were physically close, but also because they had played for a good few seconds before realising that something was amiss. They had been linked by the music, but this time, they had both been fully aware of it. They had shared an instrument. And together, one with his talent as a musician and his incredible memory, the other with his capacity to weave and project music directly from his mind, they had created something extraordinary, magical even.

Sherwin felt his eyes welling with tears as he shot through the great entrance to the academy onto the street beyond, only stopping to catch his breath once he got under the nearest lamppost.

But that experience will never repeat itself again, the boy knew. He had had his chance to get closer to Jonathan, and he had thrown it away just for that one moment, just because he couldn’t contain his stupid, stupid heart.

He wiped his tears on his shoulder; somewhere in the distance, A clock struck two o’clock in the morning. It was time to go to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note: Mozart didn’t like the flute.
> 
> Also, this ‘no touching another person’s instrument’ rule is true, where I come from anyway. The only exception was between a teacher and student, to correct posture for example. Although it was different for the piano in my school because it’s static, but Sherwin is already pretty much on edge here, so his reaction can be excused.
> 
> Edit: I hope the weird spacing issues are better now! Tell me if there are any other formatting problems that I should know about.


	3. Act 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my friend and long-time follower for chatting with me and giving me new musical references as well as keeping my morale up. The soundtrack for this chapter is therefore the following: Danza, by Vaclav Nelhybel ;)

T he next morning, Sherwin didn’t feel well. He hadn’t had the best night’s sleep, and  for some reason his stomach refused to hold his breakfast. The nurse was called and  s he looked over him, but without finding anything abnormal about him. He  was  hence given the first two hours of lessons off,  sent to rest up on the small bed in the nurse’s office whilst the  wo man busied himself with  her paperwork.  During this time, as he had all night long, he  thought over the  last night’s experience, torn between  the absolute nirvana he had been in when he had been listening to  Jonathan, and goodness,  _ playing  _ alongside him, and then the mortification  when  what he was doing had registered.  Oh, and falling flat on his face hadn’t exactly been the most gracious of moves either.  He fidgeted in his state of unrest,  either tensing at the unpleasant memories or  relaxing at the  more enjoyable ones,  so much so that the nurse had to ask him several time to try and rest up  rather than work on getting the sheets tied in a knot around himself. 

In the end, true to her word, she let him out in time for sports, which was a relief and a punishment at once. Maybe if he worked off a bit of the nervous energy he had coursing through him, he could calm down and think through his options, even though he had never been the fittest to have walked this Earth.

That day, he ran so man y laps in an hour that the teacher had congratulated him and had asked him to join the  athletics team, which Sherwin had to politely refuse using a few stuttering, mumbled words.  He  had run ,  but had also reflected on how Jonathan’s clique would  react once they were told of the events that had taken place yesterday;  although most of the members were ballet dancers, he knew from experience that they were not to be meddled with, and the probabilities of him getting smashed over the  head with an aluminium - bat wielded by a pin k- tutu-clad girl  had suddenly become significantly higher.  He had also composed a symphony  to the beat of his worn trainers on the tarmac  while he was at it , just to take the edge off his nerves.

A fter that, there was lunch, which he yet again forced down only to throw back up minutes later.  The redhead had no other choice but to go back to the nurse’s office, who gave him some sort of  medicine against nausea, but which he realised, once he left the  room,  would not have any effect whatsoever. He remembered the symptoms from when he had  passed his entrance exam for the music academy: he had the nerves. 

Maths and History passed in a semi-comprehensible blur as time following his  revelation seemed to magically speed up,  to the point where he found himself standing in the academy’s wood-panelled entrance hall without  fully remembering how he had gotten there in the first place. 

Sherwin was usually nervous around places where he was likely to come to harm, be it by some sort of prank or actual physical violence, but today his paranoia reached levels never explored before. His eyes didn’t remain on the floor as they usually would, but rather flickered this way and that, plotting out his path through the crowd, staying as close to the walls as possible without getting in the way of anyone wanting to open one of the many large lockers lining the full length of the room. He caught sight of the tall blond violinist who had teased him yesterday, mind whirring, trying to remember whether he knew Jonathan or not. Yes, probably, his mind concluded. He was in the higher level classes and so was his… whatever Jonathan now was to him. The percussionist steered clear of him and his usual friends, a clarinet-playing girl who really didn’t seem unkind and another tall guy, a cellist who looked remarkably like Jonathan, lacking both his particular aura and the cerulean of his eyes. 

H e got to  the corridor where his locker was without  bumping into anyone,  to his relief, only the few kids who were just as antisocial as him and who usually hung around the  dark er corners of the academy  present for the time being.  The redhead turned to his locker, to discover that it had yet again been tampered with. Although the ones in the hall were old and made out of wood, the academy had had to buy some new ones some years back due to the place suddenly getting more popular and taking in an influx of young students. This one was therefore metal, and it was with much chagrin that Sherwin  saw that the door now sported a  large dent at knee-height which made it very difficult to open and nearly impossible to close.  He was struggling with it when  a set of footsteps, that he didn’t register at first, made their  way down the corridor and stopped near to him.

“Can I help?”

Sherwin jumped out of his skin, trying to put some distance between himself and the perceived threat, but only managing to back himself against the lockers, involuntarily cutting off all possible escape routes. 

“I’m sorry,” was the only thing he managed to say before  his throat closed up,  raising his arms to protect his face from the baseball bat he just knew was going to come d own on hi m  any moment now. 

A  hand, not the harsh wood or cold metal that he had been expecting,  softly pushed down his  forearms. He hesitantly relented,  opening his eyes a little to see who was sparing him,  blush rising to his cheeks  when he caught sight of his face, his trademark rolled-up sleeves and flipped collar, the  apple that he  held in one hand and the thin  booklet of sheet music pressed against his side  using  his elbow.  That smile was back on his face, the same unthreatening one that he had witnessed the day before when he had helped him up from the floor.  It clearly sent out an ‘it’s OK’ signal that Sherwin would have been unwilling to accept  if it  had come from an y one else.  He tried to return it, his own turning out crooked, as usual,  but the slight crease in Jonathan’s eyelids, the little laughter lines that formed  on  the  outer  corners,  was enough to convince Sherwin that all his previous worr y ing  had been in vain.

He could have leapt to the ceiling and swung around on the main hall’s chandelier,  he was so glad.  Jonathan hadn’t rejected him! He had come up to him of his own free will, and didn’t seem affected b y  last night’s events too badly. Or else, he didn’t seem to  hold a  bad  recollection of them. He just smiled, Sherwin smiled back, and that was that.

And then, his traitorous stomach growled.

The laughter lines  creased further and Jonathan erupted into a full-blown, throaty chuckle , that the redhead joined in with,  even though h e could feel that now his face and hair had become part of the same indistinguishable, coloured mass.  The laughter died down, Jonathan smiled  at him again,  then took a step back, beckoning with his free hand.  Sherwin followed with a little trepidation,  hastily casting a look in the direction of the  other students hanging around the  corridor, but they didn’t seem to  notice or care about  them in the slightest,  too absorbed in their own wallowing loneliness to  look up and witness the bizarre scene  taking place before them. 

He was led through a few lengths of hallway, Jonathan obviously knowing the place like the back of his hand,  whilst Sherwin discovered something new at every twist and turn.  Finally, they stopped  somewhere familiar, but that Sherwin couldn’t quite situate.  It was only when Jonathan pulled a  weighty  key out from a hidden pocket that he remembered. This was the ballet room.

T he other boy unlocked the door and pushed it open,  holding it to let Sherwin  enter first.  It was just as he remembered it, except that it was now bathed in a gold rather than a silver light,  dust catching and reflecting  sun rays  as it swirled gracefully through the air. 

Jonathan didn’t close the door,  probably to leave the redhead at ease, he thought.  He had acted so jumpy earlier on,  no wonder he would want to give him the choice of an escape route if he needed one.  Gently,  the pianist took a few steps forward until the y were only  a foot or two apart. 

For the first time ever,  Sherwin could make out more clearly  every last detail of those eyes.  They were indeed blue, as he had always  known  they were, but there was more to them than that. They were blue, but with depth. A  pattern of fractals  could be made out,  the shape of which shifted and changed the longer he looked at them, like a kal e idoscope. 

J onathan took Sherwin’s hand in his, and for a second the boy thought he was going to throw up again,  but then he remembered that there was nothing left in his stomach for his nerves to turn against hi m.  He could only concentrate on one thing at once, it seemed, and intensely, at that, as now he  could feel every small callou s that adorned Jonathan’s hands, every single one a testimony to  the hard work and hours of practice that went into becoming a musician.

H e wasn’t holding his hand like  _ that,  _ though:  he was supporting it from underneath, keeping Sherwin’s palm facing the ceiling, as if wanting him to keep it that way to receive something.  And indeed, he placed  an object that felt like an envelope there,  along with something heavier on top.  Carefully, still holding Sherwin’s gaze, he  closed the redhead’s fingers around the objects, the one on top surprisingly  cool and  smooth.  His lips quirked upwards, then, in a blink of an eye, the support on his hands was gone and Jonathan was nowhere to be seen.

Sherwin stood in the middle of the room, motionless. Maybe he had dreamt this all up, but there was the  presence of the objects in his palm to counter that. Slowly, he looked down,  afraid that whatever  he was holding  would vanish  the second his eyes would encounter them.

They didn’t. A shiny, red apple was the first thing that he noticed, the very one that Jonathan had been holding when he had come up to Sherwin earlier on in the corridor. Again, his stomach growled at the sight of food. Thinking back to a few minutes ago, Sherwin remembered the embarrassing rumble that his stomach had previously emitted, concluding that it was probably this that had prompted the pianist to give up his iconic snack. The redhead couldn’t help but feel touched, maybe more so than if it had been anyone else who had gifted him the food.

Th a t wasn’t the only thing that lay in his hand though. Careful not to bruise the apple with his sometimes too-clumsy fingers, he softly tucked it away in order to get a better look of  the folded piece of paper resting there. It hadn’t been sealed in an envelope, but the way it was folded oh-so-perfectly into three segments confir m ed that this was a letter rather than a mere note. 

Sherwin was about to unfold it when he stopped, caught the sound of a bell ringing somewhere far-off, paled, and shot off for class. He could not afford to bring even more unwanted attention upon himself from showing up late. Again, when he joined the queue of students standing chatting in front of the classroom door, he felt the urge to pull out the paper that he had hastily yet carefully stashed between the pages of some blank sheet music he kept in his bag, but decided against it. Again, it would attract unwanted attention, and really, he didn’t want to have to read Jonathan’s words in a rush, without the time to savour his handwriting and the details of the letter and such. Besides, the chances were that he wouldn’t be able to contain a lovestruck sigh and press the paper against his chest. Knowing his romantic self, he could just see that happening.

Nevertheless, be it the right decision or not, it still made music theory pass by at an even slower rate than usual. Not only that, but it was one of those lessons where he needed his concentration to be at its maximum in order to keep track of what was going on. It’s useless to say that he had problems doing so that day, and despite his efforts to meld into the back of the class, he still received a few sniggers when the teacher asked something of him and he was incapable to give an appropriate answer. Blushing furiously, he had no other choice than to sit back down whilst another stood up in his place to give out the information that has been asked of him.

The end of class couldn’t have come sooner. Quickly, he ran off to ensemble, a small orchestra that comprised of students of the academy who were less experienced, or else not enough to enter the grand orchestra, but who were fewer and therefore more mobile, and could perform at venues that didn’t require a large and prestigious concert hall to play in. He took up his normal place at the back, between a xylophonist and the drums player, taking his triangle out of its case and not expecting to do much, as usual. The blond violinist he didn’t know the name of glanced in his direction as he entered the room, the venom in his gaze making Sherwin pale a little before he dropped his eyes to his feet. His shoes needed polishing again, he could see.

One of the piano teachers, the very one who had taught Jonathan when he was younger and who served as a conductor for their group, marched into the room with her usual martial stance and sat at the piano, just long enough to give the violins an ‘A’ so they could start tuning. She got up again, and motioned rather impatiently with a flap of her hand to someone standing in the shadows, a little way off. A boy stepped out, tall and walking stifflyinto the harsh overhead light.

She raised her hand, and the strings stopped their chant instantly.

“Hello musicians, before we start today, I would like to introduce you to a new student. Philip will be joining us as percussionist now that one of the places has been vacated. Now, please take your place and let us start.”

Sherwin looked left, he looked right, but everyone seemed to be there. His confusion only deepened as the other boy got closer and closer, looking perfectly determined and sure of himself despite the very obvious fact that there was no seat for him to take. Eventually, he got to the back row and stopped right in front of Sherwin, looking down at him from his head-or-so height advantage.

“Erm, hello?” the redhead said in a small voice.

“Move over,” he replied gruffly.

Sherwin didn’t move.

Whispers resounded through the room, people from the rows in front of them having turned around in their seats to watch the scene unfolding there. All of them seemed to be mocking, somehow, but the name on their sneering lips by all means wasn’t Philip’s.

“Sherwin’s still here…?”

“… that egoistic, attention-seeking Sherwin...”

“Just like Sherwin, to deny someone’s rightful place like that...”

“SILENCE!”

The roar echoed through the room, and everyone stood down, cowed. The conductor strode forward, darting through the rows and dodging the pointed bows like an eel, before descending on Sherwin. She grabbed his forearm and dragged him out of the room, giving him barely enough time to snatch his satchel and shove all his belongings into it.

It was only when they were out in the corridor that she finally let go, allowing the shocked boy to rub his bruised forearm. He looked up at her, opened his mouth, ready to say something, but then closed it and let his gaze drop.

“You are no longer welcome here, Sherwin. You should have thought about abandoning your friends and your ensemble before joining the orchestra. Now, if you would please excuse me, I’ve got young musicians to teach.”

Oh, so it was that, then. He watched the woman retreat and close the door, then the ensemble start playing the piece they had been practising for the past few weeks. It hurt his heart a little to have lost the privilege of playing with this orchestra, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. When the conductor had mentioned ‘friends’, his stomach had scrunched uncomfortably anyhow, knowing that that was one thing that he certainly would not regret.

So now, he had a few hours until he had to go to the ‘real’ conductor’s office and engage in the daily activity he had committed himself to. Glancing quickly up and down the corridor in case there was anyone there to reprimand or halt what he was going to do next, he climbed into the alcove alongside one of the towering Greek statues, his lithe frame slipping without a problem behind the carved stone and slumping against the wall beyond. There were a few cobwebs and spiders, but it wasn’t as uncomfortable as one would think, although by the time he hit his next growth spurt he probably wouldn’t be able to fit here anymore.

The redhead didn’t dwell on this however, as he was now feverishly searching through his bag, pushing aside random papers and sheet music, hoping beyond hope he had not dropped the one paper that was of any importance to him. Finally, with a small sigh, he found it, only minimally crumpled from the harsh treatment he had just imposed upon his belongings.

Slowly, he unfolded it, hands trembling a little in anticipation. The paper, unsurprisingly, was lined in a way that was supposed to receive notes, not handwriting. Jonathan probably had access to this kind of paper more than any other, like regular lined paper that you would get at school, for example. In that sense, it reflected him and his personality. Sherwin took in a deep breath, smoothing the letter out over the back of the statue which was probably supposed to represent Perseus judging from his accessories, and started to read using one of the rare rays of sunlight that entered his haven.

_Dear Sherwin,_

_I have to apologise in advance concerning my methods of communication: as you may have noticed, I’m a person of few words, and I prefer to keep spoken conversation to a minimum where possible. I hope you understand this choice, although if you wish, I can make an effort and speak to you face-to-face._

_Last night, I wasn’t expecting company, I have to admit. I suffer from light insomnia and when I find myself incapable of sleeping I go to the room lent to me by my teacher and practice pieces to better commit them to memory. Nobody uses it apart from me, the dancers have long deserted it in favour of the newly renovated one at the other end of the school, and it’s far away enough from the teacher’s apartments so as to not disturb them. Therefore, I was surprised when you interrupted my practice, but not necessarily in an unpleasant manner. You had an intense look in your eye, and I could tell that you crave the music as much as I do._

_But then, you surprised me again when you started playing alongside me. It wasn’t part of the original piece, as I would have recognised it instantly, so I can only assume that you were composing on the spot. It was a strange thing: you started playing, but it sounded so natural that I didn’t notice it at first and continued on my side without interrupting. The melodies meshed and seemed to fit together perfectly, without dissonances, and even seemed to make it richer somehow. Then, you ran, and I was hurt in the instant, because I didn’t understand why you would want to interrupt such a pleasant experience. I’ve never met someone with quite the talent that you’ve got, and maybe if it’s even just for a short amount of time, I would like to repeat it, as an experiment. This has made me curious, and I wish to get to know you a little better, and maybe we could set a time to meet up regularly, if we manage to find a moment that we could fit into both our schedules._

_Maybe you could give me an answer by slipping a paper with my name on it through the vents in my locker? Alternatively, I’ll be up tonight at the same time and place that I was yesterday, if you happen to pass by there again this evening. I would be happy to welcome you and partake in a session similar to yesterday’s. Before concluding this letter, I wish to emphasize that it’s fine if any of this makes you uncomfortable, and I would understand perfectly if you decline, or even leave no answer to my request. It is an odd one for sure, but please consider it nonetheless. I feel that it can profit both of us greatly if we follow through with it._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Jonathan._

Just as he had expected he would earlier on, the redhead sighed and pressed the paper to his chest, legs crumpling beneath him as he figuratively liquefied with joy. This was more than what he could have ever wished for. Jonathan really was the kindest, most gentlemanly boy he had ever met. He used such beautiful language, such a dainty script, and the best of all, he had called him ‘dear’ and had ended the letter with ‘sincerely yours’. He may have been overreacting, it may have just been the vocabulary he had grown up using and had little to no importance in the meaning of the letter itself, but to him it meant more than it actually did.

It wasn’t only the style, but also the content that made his heart soar as high as the cow jumps over the moon. Jonathan was asking _him_ , Sherwin, to spend time with him. Not only didn’t he mind him playing the piano with him, he had _enjoyed_ it. There was nothing in that instant that could make him feel any happier.

For not the first time today, his pleasant moment was interrupted by his stomach, the deep growl rivalling in strength with the deep bass of the cellos. It was painful as well, as the little the boy had eaten that day hadn’t had time to assimilate before it was forced back out of his organism. Remembering the apple, Sherwin rummaged through his bag for the fruit and nibbled at it slowly, making the pleasure last to trick his stomach into thinking that he was eating more than he actually was. He was used to skipping meals by now, but four in a row was pushing his limits. Next time he went back home, he was going to have to stockpile on his mother’s delicious home cooking in order to stay a semblance of healthy.

The fruit really did help a lot though, dulling the light-headedness he had been feeling growing since his run-in with Jonathan earlier on and preparing him for his hour or so of lifting work.

“You look happy,” the conductor told him when he entered the office. Sherwin lifted a hand to his cheek, and there was indeed a wobbly smile that he had not noticed was there. It didn’t shock him, as he felt like he was floating on a little cloud ever since he had read the letter, and he was pretty certain that that was not the starvation talking.

“...but drawn,” the old man was quick to remark. “I don’t want you fainting on the job, so please remember to eat and sleep well. This counts as good advice in any case; it’s essential to the musician as much as it is to the hired worker.”

The redhead, true to himself, nodded mutely with his eyes observing the detail of his shoes. Again, he remarked on the fact that he really needed to remember to polish them on the next occasion, because being just as much of a target for the teachers as he was for the students, they wouldn’t hesitate for a second if they were to scold, or even punish him if his uniform was any less than perfect. The wise conductor didn’t seem to mind though even when he was in his shirt sleeves yesterday, so it was alright to be less than presentable around him if need be.

The redhead quickly retreated to the room next door before he was forced into any more uncomfortable conversation and attacked his job. This time, he hummed as he worked, his sheer joy translating into a musical piece. He was also much more efficient than the day before, not only because now he knew what he was doing, but also because he felt like a great wave of giddy energy had taken over him. Today, unlike the day before, he knew that despite his lack of sleep he will not be tired by the end of the session. And indeed, when he next looked at his watch and saw that eleven was quickly approaching, he didn’t require a pause before he made tea, and served it up without yawning.

The conductor sipped and nodded approvingly, dismissing Sherwin silently, to his relief, but not without sparing him a questioning glance before he left. Not that he was going to answer it, but it was still there, and translated the man’s curiosity. The redhead just hoped that it would not go beyond that, and that he would never discover the true reason for his delight that day.

Walking through the hallways and filling them with the hum of the joyful little clarinet concerto he had created, the boy remarked on how different all the statues seemed today. Instead of menacing in the moonlight, they looked down on him kindly, the smile of nymphs and gods filled with good will as he made his way to the rendezvous point that Jonathan had mentioned in his letter. It took a little bit of searching, as it was that kind of place that you can easily get away from, but which was difficult to find. In the end, it was the sound of the piano that led Sherwin to the remote room, as it had the day before.

The piece Jonathan was playing today was lighter, easier than the one he had been playing the day before. He looked relaxed as he let his fingers dance across the keys, without great arm gestures as there was no need for them, nearly lazily, it seemed. Sherwin waited for a lull in the piece, a place that wouldn’t feel uncomfortable to leave the music hanging like an unfinished portrait on a gallery wall, then stepped into the silver light of the waning moon.

Jonathan looked up instantly, smiled, and got up from his piano to greet him. Expecting a handshake, Sherwin quickly swiped his sweaty palm across the fabric of his uniform jumper, but was surprised when he was surrounded in the warmth of a hug. For a second, the redhead remained stiff in the embrace, returning it awkwardly while forcing himself to relax, to not be overwhelmed by the simultaneous push and pull of both his rejection to touch in general and attraction towards this pianist in particular. Needless to say, he was very red in the face, a little trembly and most thought processes seemed to have ceased once Jonathan let go. He didn’t appear to notice though, as he caught Sherwin by the sleeve and led him gently over to the piano, where he made sure that the redhead was well sat down before he settled himself.

Now he couldn’t hide it any more, it was all too obvious. Sherwin’s hands were trembling violently, and no matter how badly he willed them to stop, the warmth by his side distracting and the hug still fresh in his mind and his heart still beating a thousand times a minute and…

And then Jonathan started playing. Instantly, Sherwin calmed. There was nothing more than the music, weaving beautifully into a melody dramatic and a little military, extremely different from the one that he had been playing previously. His heart calmed and fit the tempo of the piece instead, strong and regular, and slowly, without as much hesitation as he had thought he would have, he played.

He played out his soul. There was no reason behind his music; it was instinctive, stuttering on the odd note, as he was no pianist, but the intention was there. It fit Jonathan’s piece like an instrument in its case, flush and natural, forming a compact, nervous and royal-sounding whole.

For how long they played, Sherwin couldn’t tell. Whenever a piece was approaching its end, Jonathan gestured to Sherwin using a small nod of his head, eyes closed in concentration, and together they seamlessly created a bridge from one piece to another, Sherwin letting his talent shine more independently in these times as he created using nothing more than a vague hint of the piece to come given by a few notes from Jonathan and his posture, his dynamics when he let lose those few cues. There was no need for language, as no misinterpretation ever arose from the exchange. To Sherwin, it was more natural than any spoken word he had ever used in his life, more intimate, as well.

They had to stop at a moment or another though, despite the fact that the revelation to this new language -that he had known the existence of before, of course, but had never shared so fully with anyone- was addicting and made the redhead want for this session to never end. Jonathan took matters in his own hands, detaching from Sherwin’s weaving by brusquely ending the piece with two loud chords. The redhead looked up, surprised, but then his arms started aching and his stomach cramped as he returned to the real world. Jonathan didn’t look troubled at all, as calm as always, but maybe that was a hint of concern that flickered across his face for an instant, before his smile and eyes widened into what Sherwin now interpreted as their usual amicable expression. He softly closed the cover over the keys, giving the redhead time to retract his hands so as not catch his fingers between the ivory and the old lacquered wood.

He might have been full of good will, but Jonathan’s eyes on him had the redhead shifting uncomfortably on his seat, putting that little bit more distance between them, his own gaze incapable of lifting from his knees and his hands that remained clasped there. Being looked at so openly, so appraisingly, and by someone he admired so much, filled Sherwin with a sentiment that he couldn’t really describe in words. Music would have been more appropriate, something like a string’s rising glissando, accompanied by a strong, eager orchestra, leading the soloist forth like a dancer would their partner. Although, if he were to put his own awkward words to it, he would say that it was a bubbling, honoured happiness, one that he tried hard to keep contained so as not to reveal himself any further than he had already, but that he couldn’t help but let spill a little in his face’s expression.

Suddenly, the weight of the other boy’s gaze left him, and he could look up to see what had prompted its sudden, and he had to say, somewhat disappointing absence. Jonathan was clutching a pencil in his right hand, fingers so close to the lead that Sherwin feared for a second that he would get poisoned if he wasn’t careful, and was scribbling something rapidly on a piece of loose paper. He finished writing before Sherwin could even sneak a peek, folded it up, set it down on the piano, and left. All the whilst he was going through these actions, he was careful not look in Sherwin’s direction, not even once, for a goodbye. He simply left, hurrying off and out of the room like he had done earlier that day, leaving the redhead in the meagre company of a letter and the remains of a dying symphony in his head.

He choked back a sob. It was painful, how Jonathan had abandoned him so suddenly after they had spent such a wondrous moment together. Reaching for the letter, seeking perhaps an answer in the quick note that the pianist had left him, he unfolded it with hands sweaty and unsteady. As was to be expected, it was immensely shorter than the one that he had been given beforehand, containing nothing more than a single sentence, but it was still written in the same unmistakable script.

 _May_ _I_ _help you_ _write down the_ _fair_ _music that fills your heart_ _so?_

This was too much, and the boy stopped trying to hold back the tears that had been threatening to spill since earlier on, leaving tiny wet patches as they silently struck the oily black surface of the grand piano, reflecting moonlight and glistening in the dark like small stars.

Maybe there was hope in the world for people like him, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *coughs* I haven’ t been around much, haven’t I? Ah well, college and stuff.   
> Pencil lead used to contain lead, for people who didn’t know that. So yeah, you could get lead poisoning off pencils. There isn’t much of a chance of that happening these days though, they use something else that isn’t quite as toxic.


	4. Act 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For fedorag, on Tumblr.  
> -Passacaglia, Handel-Halvorsen  
> -Caprice no 24, Paganini

If it wasn’t for his absolute exhaustion, Sherwin would have probably been unable to sleep that night. He was giddy beyond measure, but luckily enough that particular feeling only filled him with adrenaline long enough to allow him to get back to the dormitories and crawl into bed, before the redhead’s eyelids drooped and he fell fast asleep. Hunger was what woke him, unsurprisingly, cramping his stomach early next morning and getting him out of bed even before the attendants came to wake the boys.

Bare feet met floorboards, and Sherwin shivered at the icy feeling that climbed up his system through his soles, and seemingly directly to his brain, making him grimace. Winter was approaching, the leaves of the trees outdoors more abundant on the ground than on the bare branches. Not only that, but there was a repetition scheduled today with the orchestra proper, one that was supposed to be a preparation for the great Christmas concert. The conductor was going to be present, so the unspoken agreement was that he didn’t have to go and do his share of work in the hidden sheet music library that evening (or he hoped, nevertheless). Jonathan would be there as well, but the chances were that they would not cross paths, just stay on their designated routes and play their part as instructed.

A dopey smile crept onto Sherwin’s face as he shuffled his way around the dormitory quietly, being careful not to wake the other sleeping boys. The notes he had received, both of them folded and safely pressed against his heart in his pyjama pocket, felt heavy and reassuring. The events of the night before were real. Jonathan had been there, his fingers still tingled from their contact with the piano keys whilst the patches of bare skin Jonathan had touched burned like they had been scalded. He raised a hand and patting the pocket absently, just to check whether the weight he felt there was not simple wishful thinking, and was answered with the comforting rustle of paper.

He was now in the cafeteria, a warm mug of tea held between his palms whilst his slow morning brain caught up with the exact content of the second note, and he had to knock back the boiling hot infusion all in one go in order to not giggle, or emit some other kind of undignified noise that he would have to owe up to. He must have looked like a right idiot anyway, sitting there alone and with a large smile across his cheeks, as obvious as the nose in the middle of one’s face.

No one commented on his behaviour however, and he finished off his beverage in peace and managed to make his way back to the dormitory, get his bookbag together and get dressed, before heading down to classes. Strangely, he managed to concentrate enough to take notes and understand a minimum of what was being said. Conversations were lost on him though, as everytime he had time to think about anything, his thoughts would automatically make him replay the events of the day before. There they had been, there they had shared a moment lost in music, the interlacing notes filling time whilst space itself held its breath, nothing visible on the exterior apart for the movement of their hands, the slight shuffle of their shoulders, sometimes Jonathan’s foot working the pedals to inflect a note or mute another. Everything that happened did so on the inside, in their minds, in their thoracic cages, in a dimension invisible to anyone other than them.

That was the moment Sherwin started humming. Most people were used to this habit he had, but it must have been a little too loud for the graveyard-silence imposed in the maths classroom.

“Mister Payne! We all know you’re in love by now, no need to express it so vocally and disturb class with your nonsense!”

There were a few snickers, but all in all, the main, and most mortifying reaction she got was the turning of every single one of the student’s heads in the room his way. Some eyes were narrowed, some brows furrowed, some whispers exchanged, sounding harsh and like snake hisses in comparison to the music in his mind that had now all but vanished with dread and anticipation. Sherwin quailed, sinking into his seat so far that he nearly fell out of it.

“And sit straight in your chair, young man,” she finished sermoning him, before turning back to her chalkboard and the lines upon lines of numbers and letters scrawled there. Most of the students turned back to face the lesson that they were supposed to be following, but to the redhead boy’s dismay, some still exchanged meaningful looks. He may have been mistaken, senses muddled by his heightened paranoia, but he caught sight of a movement, a flash of white being passed from student to student that looked a lot like a note, which without doubt contained some nasty, or even worse, _truthful_ theory concerning him.

This school wasn’t the worst when it came to bullying; in that respect, the academy alone far exceeded this establishment. However, rumours were something that couldn’t be prevented from circulating, and this led to the ostracisation of quite a few students that didn’t quite fit in with the various stereotypical cliques which ruled the place. Sherwin wasn’t one of the most popular kids here, and being a loner had always suited him well enough, but his real fear lay in the idea that there was a possibility that these words, whatever they were, would reach the ears of pupils of the academy; they were, by all accounts, way more likely to take action and try and discover the truth of the matter. Quite a few of them were also students in this school, although, fortunately, none of them were in the same class as him, which was a small yet true comfort.

The rest of the lesson was spent trying to half-focus on the academic task at hand. Mathematics wasn’t a subject he truly minded, as the logic behind the written numbers could resemble music and its structure if one were to squint, but this wasn’t enough to distract him from the back and forth between worry and happiness he was experiencing. The humming he had to hold back every time he was overcome with the thought of Jonathan, and even the tapping of a rhythm with the tip of a pencil against the paper to let him have an escape into his musical world were out of the question. He had already attracted too much attention to himself, and anything more could prove to be his undoing. So he sat there, anxiously taking in the formulas and words on the board, writing down every single one of them in order to keep his mind occupied. Then, when there was nothing left to write down anymore, he squiggled small things, little drawings and musical notes in the corner of the paper, things which musically meant no sense, but at least kept his hands occupied.

The day didn’t pass quite as quickly as he thought it would, as he had anticipated that the jitters of the upcoming practice session would have sped up the pace of the hours a little more. It didn’t, however, and he had to suffer through what felt like years of Biology, English, French and other subjects that he honestly couldn’t really get his head around. Needless to say, once the burden of school was lifted from his shoulders, he was ready to sigh and maybe scream in relief. Sherwin nearly slipped and fell as he ran to the academy, glad to find himself between the reassuring wood-panelled walls. The atmosphere was always warm here during the day, the hall welcoming despite the high ceiling and impressive proportions. He looked up to the carvings which marked the border between the wood-panelling and the beginning of the plaster ceiling, admiring the foliage that had been masterfully carved from the wood. The tree lived on in its previous splendour even in death. Magnificent, truly.

With this thought, Sherwin looked back down from the ceiling in order to walk the hall without tripping or walking into anyone, a hymn to immortality on his lips, but not for the first time today, his notes were stopped short in his brain, frozen instantly as a mouse would when spotting a predator. There, stood leaning against the lockers with his perfectly pressed clothes and gang of two cronies, was the blond violinist he had run into the days before.

The redhead could tell from their pose that they were waiting for him, as they swivelled to face him as soon as he stepped into their visual range. His hair had been the traitorous beacon to get him in a mess once again, indicating like a clashing of the cymbals the peak of a piece, the moment when things might topple into an oblivion of seething chords and darkened, muted oboes, or on the contrary re-establishing, stronger and more certain than before a light-hearted and triumphant melody. He gulped, the approaching trio as terrifying as a mighty wave approaching, ready to engulf him in its mass. He could no longer escape them; even if he turned tail and ran, they would either catch up with him, or else they would corner him, which was the opposite of what he was willing to deal with right now. If he was to be confronted, it might as well be in plain sight of other people. That way, someone might come to his aid. Sherwin didn’t care about embarrassment any more, all he wanted was to be at least a little safe from whatever these students would want to inflict upon him. Maybe Jonathan might walk by and help him out.

Sherwin shook his head. No, he had to deal with this himself. He shouldn’t have to expect help to come to him in any form whatsoever, even less so in such a deus ex machina fashion. He had to take his life into his own hands.

“Hey, it’s the tone-deaf kid. So, got evicted from the big orchestra yet? What a shame, you have nowhere to go now. Guess you’re a failed musician now, hey? Oh wait… weren’t you already?”

It wasn’t funny. In fact, none of the kids snickered at this, including the person who had let the dissonant words loose in the first place. It had been said, in a cold, nearly serious manner. Sherwin swallowed thickly, looking up to the person who had just insulted him, in an act of brave defiance that must have not suited him well.

“I’m still in the orchestra.”

Th two boy’s inexpressiveness turned into a smirk, and a frown on the one girl. “It won’t last, I promise. You’ll either mess up one way or another and fail by yourself, or people will make you fall from the podium on which you have wrongly been placed. You’re distracted by some silly crush as well, I’ve heard, care to tell us who this person is?”

The redhead had started to quail again under the combined stare of his three seniors, and not only that, but that last question had drained his face from all blood, he could tell. There was no way he couldn’t reveal himself; even if he tried, he would betray himself, sooner or later. He knew that he just had to be in Jonathan’s presence for his heart to skip, and consequently, for his face to go red and his eyes dreamy. It wouldn’t be difficult, even for the most detached of observers, to put two and two together and figure things out themselves. He could remain quiet for the time being, though. That was the only thing he could do in this instant.

“Guys, we’re gonna be late.”

Salvation came in the unexpected form of the clarinet-player’s proposal, the shorter girl staring back determinedly when both of her friends turned her way and frowned at her. The blond paused though, checking his watch and nodding when he saw the time displayed there.

They moved on, leaving a trembling Sherwin in their wake. The brunet boy did smack the back of his head on the way out, but it was very minor compared to what Sherwin had been expecting from this encounter. Not believing his luck, but still considerably shook up, he scuttled off to a class he now knew he was late for, for once mind blank of any music. Instead, it was took up with pondering thought, thinking through the reasons why this person, the one girl who had always melded into the mass of his tormentors, would have taken pity of him just this once. Maybe it was to get his hopes up, just so she could shoot them down even more harshly? No other answer seemed more plausible than that one for the time being, yet he couldn’t help but hope that this meant that he now had an ally, or at least someone ready to defend him. He could have cried, the thought of someone other than Jonathan actually sympathising with him too much to bare, but he didn’t. Sitting at the back of the music theory class, he quietly let his lip tremble during the whole length of the lesson, shooting to the bathroom as soon as they were dismissed to stifle the sobs that he had been holding.

He was too hopeful, he realised. Since the magic, music-fuelled bond that he had with Jonathan had been uncovered, his hopes had shot to the sky. He had softened, seeing good in things that he wouldn’t have considered so before. Despite the fact that he was still on edge, still fearful, his trust had been boosted by the simplest of encounters, the smallest sign of kindness enough to move him forward.

Pricking his ears for sounds of any other people who may have entered while he was crying, he cautiously moved out of the stall that he had barricaded himself in and stood in front of the only mirror in the bathroom, red-rimmed eyes staring back at him. He leaned heavily on the sink, eyes falling to the tap, trying to focus on not letting more tears fall and on regulating his breath. He adjusted it to the rhythm of his heartbeat and thought of the soothing melody that Jonathan had been playing when he had stumbled across him for the first time, and surely enough, it only took him a few minutes to calm down. Prudently, he opened the tap and let the water run through his fingers, the coolness a blessing against the warm, sticky tears that had tainted his fingers. He cupped his hands, trapping the water in a small dam of palms and interlaced fingers, removing them from the stream just as it was threatening to spill over the sides and into the sink. He then threw the contents onto his face, the sudden cool sensation making him wince and allowing the water to drip down into the fabric of his shirt uncomfortably, but it was well worth the cleansing sensation.

All this had been too much, he now realised. All he wanted now was comfort, the warmth of his family home. He was fortunate, very fortunate that the weekend was finally approaching, that he would be able to head back and forget about all this for a handful of days. He would guide his brother’s attempts at the cello, maybe play something nice for his mother on the small upright family piano that, if it weren’t for his musical education, would probably be buried under mountains of dust and unpaid bills. Yes, that would be good, and despite the absence of Jonathan, he would be happy.

It wrenched his gut to think that he wouldn’t he able to see Jonathan in such a long time: it may have been only two days, but Sherwin could already feel the attachment strongly knit between them. There was now two things essential to him in this life, and those were music and Jonathan. They had barely spoken, and really, they only knew each other by their respective reputations, and under normal circumstances Sherwin would have probably not trusted anyone in that short amount of time, but somehow he had. New tears pricked at his eyes as yet again he was overcome with emotion, different and stronger than the one before, the resurgence of the realisation that Jonathan not only accepted him, but appreciated him back, had allowed him to become his partner in music. However, there was a catch, one that Sherwin, blinded by the moment, had not been able to see: what if all this was but an illusion?

His whole untrusting nature came back to the surface in that instant, and he had to pull his arms around himself and breathe heavily, preparing himself physically before going down the harrowing thought-path. Maybe Jonathan did not see that in him. Maybe, in time, he would realise that the small, weak and untalented percussionist on his grand path to becoming the world’s most respected piano player was to be ignored and forgotten. Maybe the violinist was right. Maybe he really was destined for failure; maybe he would be forced out onto the streets, only allowed to perform the most popular and bland pieces in order to make enough money to feed himself. And maybe, in ten, twenty, thirty years time, he would catch sight of Jonathan again, walking smart and as handsome as ever in his tailored suit, whilst he would be sitting with a hat in front of him and a zither in his lap, playing popular songs that people had heard over and over again, even by those of uncultured ear. Maybe then, he would toss him a coin, and he would raise their eyes and their gazes would lock, there might even be recognition, but whatever the case, soon enough, Jonathan would not linger. He would set off, on his way to his next great concert, and he would die in the cold, lonely, with his fingers red and raw and frozen to zither strings, allowed to stay at least with one of his true loves, music, until the very last breath.

Sherwin shook himself out of the awful daydream seconds before it ended, opening the cold water tap violently and dunking his whole head underneath the glacial flow. Immediately, his thoughts were cleared, and he gasped as he resurfaced, locks now thoroughly drenched and dripping into his neck and down his back. He slammed his hands so violently down on the sides of the sink this time that it rattled, shaking a little free from the wall that it was attached to. Sherwin paid this no mind, however, and stared at his reflection, challenging it.

No, he would fight. That’s what he had been doing since he could hold an instrument in his hands, and this was by far not his only moment of weakness. His chest did not ignite, but rather sang, a thousand-string orchestra growing and echoing against his organs and filling his ribcage with the rage of the numerous before him who had worked so hard to practice their art, to have it recognised in the way that it was today. He took in one last shuddering breath, then moved on towards the door, slicking his hair back with one hand on his way out. Tonight, he will see Jonathan. He will make sure that they spoke, or at least that they saw each other one last time before the weekend. He wanted to show how much all this mattered to him.

There wasn’t much as far as sheet-music and instruments went that he had to grab before he set off: everything was in his locker, that yet again he had to fight with in order to open correctly, but this time he didn’t require any help, adrenaline and a raging wind quatuor helping him on with his task and giving him what seemed to be strength enough to go up against every single student that had ever brought misery to him or anyone else in the academy. With a determined kick, he closed his locker, spun the dial-lock and set off for the opera.

The walk wasn’t long, all he had to do was go around the building to the other side. Surprisingly enough, no one had thought of simply constructing a door between the two edifices, as they had a wall in common, but that was not what was on Sherwin’s mind for the time being. He was going to get there hours before the time appointed by the conductor and the other musicians, but that meant nothing. Jonathan would be there before most people, he reasoned, so as long as his teacher was not breathing down his neck during all that time, he would maybe be able to get a word in edgeways with him.

He arrived in front of the main opera entrance, glancing through the dark glass with a frown. There were no lights on, something that he hadn’t been expecting. Was he too early? It couldn’t be; there _must_ be at least one person at this time. Unless, again, he had messed up and come here on the wrong day.

There was no way he could check that it was indeed today that they were supposed to meet up for their practice session: it couldn’t have been yesterday, the conductor would have surely reminded him… Sherwin racked his brains, trying desperately to find a time he may have been reminded of his commitments this evening. Hadn’t the blond boy mentioned something earlier on? No, he had simply been teasing him. There had been no mention of the rehearsal this evening, nor had anyone else told him of so. In desperation, he strained his ears, trying to catch be it simply a single note through the heavy wood, then, as a last resort, he knocked hesitantly on one of the glass panels, hoping that maybe the sound would travel better through the panes than the wood.

Again, he was greeted with silence, one that he let suspended for a while before attempting to knock again, this time louder. The rage that had been filling him was slipping away too quickly, leaving him weak and helpless, shivering in the cold, now desperate and only wanting to get into the building. He had worked so hard to be in the position he was in today, he could not let this occasion pass. Joining the orchestra had not only been motivated by Jonathan; he had wanted to carve himself a niche in the pitiless world of classical musicians. He had wanted to prove himself, to make his family proud. It couldn’t be over, not yet.

The door swung open, a woman appearing so suddenly that Sherwin nearly knocked on her rather than on the now inexistant wood of the door. He froze, then took a quick step back, spine going as rigid as a pole, stiff smile and nervous sweatdrop in place as soon as he realised who this was: his old orchestra teacher, and Jonathan’s tutor in the flesh.

“Oh, you’re here for practice then?” she asked, voice flat and emotionless. “Well, come this way. You can just open the door and walk in next time, you know,” she added. Without giving Sherwin any more of her time or attention, she spun on her heels and set off back down the dark, unwelcoming corridors. The redhead was quick to follow her before the door slammed shut, pushed by a gust of wind. The sound made him jump and let go an undignified squeak, which he tried to muffle with his hands, but it wasn’t necessary: no one was there to hear him; the woman had already rounded the corner, out of Sherwin’s line of sight.

The place was warmer than he would have expected, but it was dark and unwelcoming. The building was older, older than the academy itself, and it was rumoured that it had been built over an ancient graveyard. Not that Sherwin believed in such rickety theories, of course, but he couldn’t help but try and keep his eyes away from the seemingly shifting darkness in the corners of the room. They were sucking him in, he could _feel_ their pull, yet it was not their darkness that was terrifying: it was their silence. With a gulp, Sherwin ran forward towards where he thought he had seen the woman disappear, following the now-clear cacophony of several instruments practising random parts, or else being tuned.

He burst into a large room, out of breath from his short sprint (it was probably the panic which had put him in such a state: he still remembered the praise he had received for his PE skills not even a day before), hands on his knees and huffing air in and out. Straightening up, he noticed, to his relief, that only a few people had been distracted by his sudden appearance, and most went immediately back to their work anyway, not a word being exchanged between musicians.

This was something that he had been surprised by the one and only time he had worked with the orchestra: they were, all in all, less rowdy and more focused on their work than the apprentices in the younger version. These people were for the most part being paid for their work; this was no longer a hobby, but rather a job, and one they took seriously at that. Of course, there were exceptions, as he was quick to find out.

Sherwin walked easily to his place in the orchestral formation, zigzagging between seats way more easily than in the cramped space of the smaller, less experienced orchestra’s repetition room. The other percussionists were not there yet, much to his relief (he wasn’t really in the mood to start a conversation, as usual, he supposed), so he didn’t hesitate in taking up as much place as he needed unpacking his things. He got everything ready, made sure that all his papers were in the right order, then finally lifted his eyes to get a good look at the rest of the room.

His place as a percussionist was akin to being right at the back of the class: he had a clear view of everything going on in the room while remaining invisible to most of the other people, as they were all turned towards the front and the conductor’s stand, as if facing a teacher, waiting for his indications. Obviously, it was empty for the time being, but that was the atmosphere which emanated from the formation. The room was considerably more full than it had been when Sherwin had first arrived, but that wasn’t what mattered to him in the moment. His eyes raked through the people assembled there, looking for a very specific mop of shiny chestnut hair. The piano was deserted for the time being, something that Sherwin didn’t quite understand: if his tutor was here, why shouldn’t Jonathan be with her? And why weren’t they by the piano, either?

A flash of silver distracted him for a second, one which he associated with authority, the smell of tea, and the perfectly balanced chords of a full orchestra pulling his attention from the task at hand a second and making him slump a little in despondence. It was the conductor, he could tell even from this distance, and he was talking to someone, to someone with an aura nearly as impressive as his own…

“Ah, Sherwin, young man! Just the person I was looking for. Come over here, come on, don’t be shy.”

Nothing could have caught the redhead boy more off guard than the elderly man’s enthusiastic beckoning in his direction, the smile he addressed him, as if he were an old friend. With caution, the boy stepped forward. There was still the lingering doubt that this could be a trap of some sorts, something designed to hurt him in some way or another, but he quickly shook his head of the idea. No, this was the conductor: he may have been terrified of him, but it was in his greater interest to trust him; he had done nothing to harm him other than make sure that he paid his due for the time being, and the person standing next to him was proof enough of his good will. Jonathan was there, his perfect eyebrows quirked, as usual, eyes gaining new light when they set themselves on him… no, they were always that shiny, he was only trying to kid himself here, thought Sherwin.

“I’ve been wanting to introduce you two for some time now, it’s rare to have two talented young people in an orchestra at once. Sherwin, you probably know Jonathan Sharma by name, and Jonathan, I expect that the same can be said of you and Sherwin. Well, I just wanted both young prodigies to know each other’s faces, that’s all-” He turned to the first violinist, who had just tapped his shoulder irritably, visibly unhappy to see him paying attention to newbies rather than the very important orchestral matters. He was quick to walk off, now completely ignoring the two young musicians.

Jonathan looked at Sherwin, Sherwin looked at Jonathan, and without warning the latter burst out laughing. The situation was improbable, be it the old conductor whom everyone seemed respect having for some reason taken a certain fatherly interest in them, or maybe the fact that their introduction was not necessary, and it was nice to let off a little steam after all that mulling Sherwin had been going through during the last few hours.

They soon quietened though, the looks of a few musicians casting a disapproving weight over them forcing them to calm down. Jonathan continued to laugh though, silently and under his breath; his shoulders shook, his eyes creased and smile wide, and the redhead musician could only watch in awe, because he was no longer amused, but rather transfixed, hypnotised by the boy in front of him, who radiated like a sun shone, who by simply showing happiness, crushed his lungs like the dull, throaty thrum of the tuba when you were standing too close to the huge instrument during practice.

The darker boy looked up from his bent-over-laughing position, catching Sherwin staring. The redhead looked away, suddenly deeply embarrassed, beetroot igniting his face from the base of his neck to the root of his hair, he could tell. It didn’t last long though, because he looked back in Jonathan’s direction when he caught his sleeve, eyes snapping up to meet his, clear blue even in the yellowish lighting of the opera. He tugged gently, smile welcoming and seeming to say “trust me”.

And Sherwin did, with all his heart. He nodded, jerkily probably due to his currently extremely flustered state, and they were off like a flash. Musicians watched them pass in a blur as they ran, Sherwin keeping up and surprisingly not hitting anyone as they zigzagged between the chairs and sheet music stands, Jonathan’s steps as light-footed as a deer’s through the woods, and somehow transmitting that ability to the other boy. There was a rhythm to his footsteps, one which Sherwin caught onto as naturally as his heartstrings hummed to the music in his chest; maybe that’s what it was, the fact that they were both so close to music, felt it as such an integral part of themselves, maybe that’s why he didn’t hesitate to follow when Jonathan leapt over the small gap which separated the stage from a maintenance staircase hidden behind one of the great crimson drapes that hung from the ceiling high above, neither did he falter as they took the rickety steps two at a time. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, everything in him confident and forthgoing, just like when the tipping point comes in a musician’s apprenticeship, the moment where they are no longer slaving away over the instrument, but start to truly enjoy playing, the notes no longer feeling forced, but flowing with a practised ease, one that in time, becomes as addicting as the most powerful of loves.

They raced over the overhead walkways, disregarding the old metal’s protests as they flew through levels of the backstage that Sherwin would have never even thought could possibly be accessible to anyone other than the mysterious and never-seen stage technicians. As it had been with the academy’s halls, the redhead was soon completely lost, every single tangle of cables and ropes looking similar as Jonathan led him through the maze of passages, crawl-areas, walkways and ladders.

Sherwin was not exactly quite as fit as Jonathan though, it soon turned out, as he was starting to feel a weariness in his limbs and a wheeze had entered his breath; he was slowing down, Jonathan was no longer leading him, but dragging him along. He was about to call for a break, to abandon and stop completely, but that was when he felt the darkness claw at his heels. In a panic, he accelerated again, heart dropping when Jonathan let go of his sleeve, but only for a second, catching his wrist instead in a firm grip that burned through the fabric and immediately gave the redhead new strength.

Suddenly, Sherwin was made aware of the fact that a door had just materialised in front of them, but with assurance and without breaking his stride, Jonathan slammed it open, used the speed he had built up to turn suddenly and pull the door closed. Just before it did, Sherwin caught sight of a wave of approaching darkness, tendrils of which only just started to lap at the threshold before the door was slammed on them, halting their progress completely.

Jonathan turned to Sherwin, smiled, but quickly dropped it when he saw the state he was in. The redhead was panting, hands resting heavily on his knees, all that running catching up on him. He heard footsteps as Jonathan moved to somewhere else in the small room, then back to him, patting his shoulder lightly to get his attention. Sherwin looked up, seeing him smile awkwardly, holding a glass of water in one hand. The other boy took it prudently, throwing him a grateful smile and feeling his heart jump to his throat when their fingers brushed for an instant. There was a chair behind him, he could see by the faint electric light, so he sat down and looked around the room, trying to not let his eyes land on Jonathan again.

It was small, simple: the major features were the chair he was currently sitting in, a small piano and a bed, all fitting somehow in the tiny place. A wooden cross was also set above the door, and a window which let an infinity of stars shine through the spattering of dust and cobwebs hanging there like drapes of lace. It smelled musty too, but not in a mildew-y way. It was a warm mustiness, despite the nip to the air that he had experienced earlier on when he had been walking around outside. It was cosy, if he were to use a single word to describe the place.

From the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of Jonathan sitting down on the bed, the turquoise shine of his pupils still turned his way, clearly still concerned for his wellbeing. Sherwin offered a small smile, trying to reassure as much as he was capable of, then got up, stretching his arms up above his head until they popped.

Jonathan still remained sitting on the bed though, a small smile illuminating his features as he watched Sherwin walk around the room, as he stopped at the piano, as he let his fingers rest on the yellowed ivory of the keys without quite daring press down on them. The redhead was quick to turn back however, snapped out of the dream-like state that the detached atmosphere of the room had put him in as quickly as he had entered it.

“What… were those?” he whispered, hesitation and a good dose of fear entering his voice as he pointed towards the door frame. Tentacles of darkness had chased them, they had been terrifying, and there wasn’t much to prove that they were protected from whatever they were here. True, the closed door had stopped them, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t another entrance somewhere, a crack in the floorboards through which they could bleed, or even just phase through the walls, or…

The pianist must have sensed the unease in his demeanour, as he was quick to get up and make his way towards him, hands gesturing up and down in a calming motion that had Sherwin breathing more regularly already. He got to his level and gently took him by the shoulders, closer than he had ever been before to him (he just hoped that he could not hear the thrum of his heart through the silence of the room, its kickdrum-like cadence beating against his chest loud to his own ears), and guided him to the door, pointing at the cross sitting above the door.

Sherwin wasn’t of the religious type, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t accept an explanation that to him didn’t seem logical. Jonathan was showing him that this was an item that obviously protected the room from whatever was beyond, and he had no reason not to believe him. Besides, the question didn’t seem to have any importance anymore, as meanwhile he had literally melted in the arms of the one holding him, giddy smile and all plastered on his face. Fortunately, the room was only illuminated by weak light, so with a little luck Jonathan hadn’t noticed a thing.

“They’re spirits long passed away. They’re bitter and old, and do not appreciate music as we do.”

It was surprising to hear Jonathan speak; it was so surprising, in fact, that Sherwin turned around to look at him straight-on, something that he instantly regretted when he found himself maybe an inch or so away from the other boy’s face. Their noses nearly touching, and those eyes, those eyes…

Something happened just then. In that instant, a melody appeared. It was not in his head though, nor in his chest or in his limbs or within himself, as it usually did, but rather in the air between them, much like when they played the piano together. Jonathan froze, seeming to hear it too, even though “hear” was not the right word for the sensation. It was more like a… vibration, a presence. They remained unmoving, overwhelmed, crushed, even, by these notes that neither of them had ever heard before. Then, Sherwin got scared. Quickly, he took a step back, another, a few more until he was backed up against the door. It had been enjoyable, true, but _intense,_ and he was now shaking a little from the experience. Jonathan remained frozen too, but quickly snapped out of it, shaking his head and turning around quickly.

“This is my getaway. I wanted to show you this place where I escape between acts, when my teacher is looking the other way… I wanted to share this with you, Sherwin. Because I trust you, and I don’t want to lose you. Is that… is that enough to prove my worth to you?”

The mumbled words, muted even more by the back that he now had turned on the person he was addressing, came out hesitantly. Sherwin gradually let himself take a step away from the wall, one back towards the boy he had ever so harshly rejected barely seconds ago.

He understood. From what he had just said, Sherwin could tell that he was having the same destructive thoughts as he had earlier on that day. In this place lost in space and time, it seemed just about plausible that Jonathan may admit to that. This room was in a different reality, it seemed, a place where nearly anything was possible, just like the dance room; a place that simply didn’t exist when they were not in it, inaccessible to others, a sanctuary with walls infused with old music and the passion and fears of countless musicians before them. As if in a dream, Sherwin took another step forward, and another, and yet another. He made his way around Jonathan so that they were yet again face-to-face, yet again close, with yet again that melody between them, but this time not as harsh. It was still just as strong though, especially when Sherwin took the pianist’s hands in his own, the contact igniting his palms and illuminating his chest with a warm glow. They were ever so close now, their chests nearly touching, their faces mere inches apart.

Sherwin nodded; it was small, but the effect on Jonathan was immediate. His face softened, his eyes lost all sharpness, filling with hope and a calm, yet intense joy. Finally, a small smile played on his lips, sincere and kind.

The melody around them had swelled, not in volume but in emotion, and this was the small detail, the trill which changed everything. In a movement that did not require thought, which was as natural as were the last few conclusive chords to a piece, Sherwin closed the space between them and gently pressed a kiss to that happy smile.

The world went silent. It was the kind of silence which was filled with so much meaning, which seemed to rub out the edges of the world and filled it with a whiteness, a pureness, a nothingness incomprehensible to humanity. It was the silence that filled the air between the end of a genius’ performance and the soon-to-be moment when the public would explode into applause, a moment only long enough for the heart to skip a beat.

And then, suddenly, reality snapped back into place, they were back in the musty old attic room with its elegant cobweb-lace hangings and the millions of stars whose light streamed in through the single window and reflected in the now widened orbs of Jonathan’s eyes. Immediately, Sherwin took a step back, the reality of what he had just done dawning on him. He let go of Jonathan’s hands, the biting coldness that he had not noticed in the room taking hold of his fingers as soon as they escaped the warm embrace of those palms. The back of his knees hit something, and he fell back onto the bed with a squeak. This seemed to awake Jonathan from his frozen state, and he took a step forward, raising his hand ever so slightly.

The movement caught Sherwin’s eye, and he recognised it as danger. He jumped up from where he had fallen on the soft mattress, breathing now uneven and eyes darting from one side of the room to the other, animalistic instinct taking over as he bolted right past Jonathan to the door, which he slammed open, and without even bothering about the shadows waiting beyond, ran.

This time, he wasn’t as efficient at avoiding the hidden dangers of the backstage. He stumbled and fell several times on the rickety platforms, broke the woodworm-eaten rungs of ladders which should have long since been replaced, and on several occasions even felt the darkness chasing at his heels, tearing at his pant legs and trying to get him to join them. But those were not the ones he was fleeing, so he paid them no mind. When he glanced back, it was in fear of seeing a pair of blue eyes, not the waves upon waves of quiet, angry spirits.

Somehow, he got out of the building without much more than a few bumps and bruises. His shaking had not diminished during his run, so he stood leaning on knees too weak to support him, his tortured wheezes coming out in dragon’s breath clouds from his mouth. He was scared, so scared, and desperate. He had to flee, there were no two ways about it, his brain told him. He had to find a place where he would not be found, somewhere where Jonathan would not be able to find him, nor anyone else whom the story would spread to, he had to go…

_Home._

Yes, that was the place. His family was there, his mother, his sister, his brother. They would protect him; they were warm, had never doubted him. Had always believed and loved him.

Sherwin stood tall once more, trying to organise himself. The transport he took to go back to his family most weekends didn’t pass at this time of night, that he knew. He was going to have to wait until morning, he had to pick up his clothes at the dormitory, somehow recuperate his instrument and various materials that he had left inside the opera-house… but there was nowhere to go meanwhile… the dormitory was too obvious a choice, they would surely find him there if he went back and spent the night there…

The click of the grand building’s door opening was enough to snap him out of his thoughts, making him look up at the figure silhouetted against the faint light pouring out from the grand hallway. Of course, it was the one silhouette he recognised and dreaded the most.

“Sherwin,” Jonathan said in a level tone, loudly enough to cut through the muffled noises of the night.

“I’m sorry, I-”

He cut himself off when he saw the other boy yet again take a step in his direction. Not even bothering to see whether he would follow him or not, he turned tails and ran. Clothes didn’t matter any more, nor his instrument, nor any of his belongings. All he wanted to do was go home. So he did. He ran through the streets, slowing down to a jog after a while when he got to the edges of the city. It might have taken him an hour to get to the town limits, but he didn’t feel the time pass; the redhead boy didn’t feel the cold, nor the tears streaming down his face, only the _thrum-thrum-thrum_ of his heart pumping blood through his veins, only the stabbing, twisting pain in his chest. There it was. The blond violinist boy had been right. With a single, mindless action, he had destroyed his hope at a career in the only domain he loved, as well as cut the growing ties with a person who had shown him true kindness for the first time in years.

The redhead boy jogged for hours, his athletic skills that the teachers had pointed out the only thing, along with despair, driving him on. The area was now rural, trees and fields taking the place of red brick factories and large cement buildings, although he didn’t notice the moment the landscape shifted from one to the other. Opening the door to his house felt mechanical, and so was him dragging himself up the stairs to collapse in his bed, instantly falling into a mercilessly tortured sleep.

Little did he know that he was not the only one who didn’t sleep well that night.


	5. Act 4

Beatrice was not happy. Not happy at all. She had been expecting a lie-in that morning, the first that she had been able to fit in all week, but of course someone just _had to_ come trundling into the house at half four in the morning, causing all the floorboards to creak and bumping into pieces of furniture. With a groan, she turned over and pulled the covers back up over her ears, falling back asleep, then waking up a few hours later in a cold sweat.

An intruder had come into the house, possibly burgled them, and she had just _slept through it._

Cursing her own stupidity over and over, she jumped out of bed, feet landing perfectly in the slippers sitting on the floor, before rushing out of the room, spinning around the corner, eyes quickly snapping from one wall to another. Nothing seemed amiss, none of the drawers in the hallway were open, everything was perfectly in order. Not a burglary, then. Well, maybe not. She still had to check the rest of the house to see whether that was indeed the case. However, as she rushed down the hall, she screeched to a halt when she got to Sherwin’s room. The door was ajar, something which had very much not been so the day before. With much caution and footsteps now light, she rounded the door into the room, peeking in.

She blanched. There was someone there, in the bed, the regular lift and fall of the blanket covering them revealing a living presence. With great caution, she took a step forward, another, until she was just about close enough to peek over the edge of the covers to spot…

That was a very familiar head of curly hair that she saw resting there.

The screech was heard throughout the house, waking the two other denizens who had been sleeping soundly up until then. Mrs. Payne as well as her youngest son, Michael, were quick to burst out of their rooms and sprint towards the source of the noise: not many things scared Beatrice, but as a family, they were loyal to her never mind the kind of danger they were to be confronted with; they would try without fail to help her out, to the best of their extent.

It was only as they burst into Sherwin’s room and saw the tall woman holding up said boy by the collar, who was looking drawn and waxy, as if ill, did they understand the situation. He was not supposed to be back home before today, and from his living corpse-like appearance, there must have been a very perculiar reason to this. With a huff, their mother took a step forward into the room and put a gentle hand on her daughter’s shoulder. The eldest promptly eased her grasp on her brother and set him down onto the mattress, the mix of anger and pained concern still fluttering across her face. None of such emotions touched Mrs. Payne’s face though, only her usual tiredness.

“Right, all of you, go back to your rooms; Sherwin, we need to talk.”

Beatrice stomped out, followed by the fearful patter of Michael’s bare feet on the creaky floorboards. Coffee was what she needed right now, not rest.

The kitchen was as quiet as usual at this time of the morning, only the slow tick of the cheap plastic clock echoing throughout the room. She slammed the button on the coffee maker with more force than was necessary, needing to get rid of her nervous energy somehow. Her hands were trembling a little from the remains of the shock, and she tried to clear her head of the image of her little brother, her sweet, talented young brother Sherwin as sickly and pitiful as he had seemed then. The only way he could have managed to come back here at all last night was by foot, or else he had been picked up along the way and driven here, but… That was too dangerous, her little brother would have never had the guts to hitch-hike. She hoped, at least.

The whistle of boiling water cut through her thoughts, snapping her back to reality. As aggressively as she had earlier on, she slammed her finger down on the ‘off’ button and poured herself a mug, downing the boiling liquid in one gulp, adding no sugar nor milk to dull the bitter taste. On her fourth mug, her mother walked back into the room, the expression on her face enough to calm Beatrice down and to make her hastily serve up another cup of the brew as well.

They sat at the table, Beatrice waiting, hands fiddling with the mug’s handle in anticipation of what her mother had to say. The older woman took her time, sipping at her coffee and getting up halfway through to add milk. After a while, her daughter decided that she could not take it any longer, and let out a needy: “So?”

The woman sighed, putting down the teaspoon she had been using to stir the milk into her coffee onto the scratched and worn wooden table, not caring for the extra coffee stain that would come to taint its surface. “He’s tired, and needs all the rest he can get. I’m going to have to make a few phone calls, but later. Thanks for the drink by the way.”

That was all she was going to say, the eldest child knew. She had questions, a lot of them, but there was no way her mother was going to answer any at this time of night. Stretching and letting out a wide yawn, she excused herself and put the mug in the sink, before heading back to her room. There was no way she was going to be able to get back to sleep now, but she was at least going to try and rest a little bit. As she passed by Sherwin’s room though, she stopped dead in her tracks. Muffled sobs could be heard through the wood, hiccups and sniffs that would tear anyone’s heart four ways. The temptation was great to push down on the door handle, enter the room and hug her little brother tight, to dry his tears and reassure him until he was calm and happy again. Her hand even came to rest on the cheap metal of the door handle, cold seeping through her palm and numbing her hand a little, but in the end she thought better of it and let her arm drop by her side. She set off to her own room, closing the door and getting under the covers, but still incapable of chasing away the sound of those mind-rocking sobs and the rage that they ignited in her gut. Whoever had hurt her baby brother was going to pay for it dearly.

Beatrice managed to rest up a few hours, although most of that time was spent regretting her actions. She had been a little angry, but scared too, when she had first seen her brother in that state, and maybe she shouldn’t have picked him up like that, or woken everyone else in the house either. But still, what was done was done, and all she could do now was apologise when she was finally allowed to speak to him again. In the meantime, she might as well try and sort things out with Michael too.

When she entered the kitchen for the second time that day, she was in luck: her youngest brother was sitting there eating his cereals, a serious look on his face despite his usual insouciance. Their mother had just emerged too, carrying a platter of half-eaten breakfast foods, looking a little more defeated than usual.

“Is he sick, hurt?” Beatrice could not help but ask, the edge of worry insinuating itself into her voice.

“No. He just needs rest,” their mother answered with a shake of her head, although there was probably more to it than she wished to reveal. “He’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

Both the eldest and the youngest members of the family exchanged a meaningful look, although they didn’t push any further. It seemed that they were going to have to spend the whole weekend worrying about Sherwin, or else they were going to have to break into his room and ask him directly. Although the second option would put their curious minds at ease, it might hurt him more than he was already, something that they definitely didn’t want. It was known throughout that Sherwin was by far the least enduring of the life-hardened Payne household, holding his fragility despite all he had been through with the rest of them. He had to be treated carefully, and bursting in on him with probing questions was likely to just make the situation worst than it was already. They were stuck.

They all stayed huddled in the kitchen, a rare occurrence if ever there was one, as they would usually go their separate ways by nine o’clock and engage in their respective activities, but it was not to be today. Their mother went off several times to check on her middle child, and once to go and phone the school (a conversation that both her son and daughter listened in on intensely, trying to get a glimpse of what might have happened, but without success), but every time she returned to the kitchen and sat at the table with them. At one point, someone put the radio on, probably to try and break the silence a little, but that pop music only sounded like strained happiness to Beatrice. Still, at least the deafeningly slow ticks of the kitchen clock were muted.

It must have been about eleven when it happened. The sound of the doorbell cut through the silence like butter, awakening the half-asleep family. Michael jolted, Beatrice raised her head from where she had been laying on her crossed arms, and Mrs. Payne got up with a weary sigh, walking to the door with little to no eagerness. The sound of it opening caught Beatrice’s attention, but she did not become concerned or even interested until she realised that her mother had been talking for over five minutes, her voice as well as a second woman’s one rising and falling as they took turns saying what they had to. Beatrice got up, pacifying her youngest brother with a small wave of her hand, and made her way out of the room. Something whispered to her want that she must remain as silent as possible, like when she was a little kid: thinking back to that time long past, when it was necessary, she remembered the exact location of every single creaky floorboard, and somehow instinctively knew how to use her new weight as an advantage when creeping around rather than something that might hinder her progression. It was a little scary, but ultimately thrilling, especially when she was rewarded with what she had wanted in the first place.

She carefully settled around the corner, ears pricked like the cat-burglar she was re-imagining herself as, attention fully focussed on the conversation taking place on the other side of the wall. Despite this, she still had problems distinguishing some things which were being said.

“-he wanted to come here and apologise...”

“I’ve got no idea what he did, but I swear-”

A rustle, one which sounded like the one of cellophane, and their mother stopped speaking, cut short by something or another. There was nothing but silence, save the creaking of the house and the hum of the ancient fridge in the kitchen, and Beatrice was ready to step out of her hiding place to at last get at least a glimpse of what was going on. She held back though, giving herself a little more time, keeping her curiosity at bay for just a little longer.

“I guess that it’s alright if you come in for a little bit,” the older woman sighed, after what had seemed like an eternity to her daughter, and suddenly there were footsteps, more than one pair on the worn entrance mat, and the young woman only had a moment to retreat back to the kitchen, sit in the chair she had left and to put on a semi-bored, semi-stressed air which she had been harbouring earlier on.

Soon enough, her previous curiosity was satisfied: the people who had been present at the doorstep soon showed themselves, and an odd pair they were too, her renewed interest was glad to observe. The woman, tall and strict looking, was looking around the humble kitchen with a certain disgust tainting her figure; but yet again, it could have just been her default expression. There was no way to know for certain.

The boy, on the other hand, looked ruffled, to say the least. His hair was all over the place, with small strands sticking out of his attempt at a Pompadour, and the expensive clothes he wore were full of wrinkles, so much so that he might as well have slept in them.

“Alright kids, this is Miss..?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am. Young lady, young man, this is Jonathan. There was quite a commotion yesterday evening surrounding your brother, as you most likely know, and… well, my apprentice was worried about his well-being. He’s admitted to being the one who’s responsible for your brother’s current state.”

All eyes went to the only person in the room that she could have been referring to, who immediately looked down, keeping his hands tightly clasped behind his back. Again, there was that mysterious sound of crumpled paper, of plastic paper, more precisely. To be perfectly honest, the boy didn’t seem to be much of a threat, but Beatrice knew her little brother more than he could ever really suspect, as nosy as she was: she could see the pain in his eyes when she had asked him about his friends at the academy, as well as the distress when she had teasingly enquired about girlfriends. She may have been bigoted at one time, but she was no longer so; Sherwin was her little brother, as much as Michael was, and as the eldest it was her duty to protect and love them no matter what.

When her eyes swivelled to the brunet, she could therefore not really help the red from entering her vision. She got up from her chair, her big sister instincts taking over without her full consent, and had even started to bare her teeth in a feral smirk. No one would have been able to stop her, most probably. With the build of a she-bear and the viciousness of a wolverine, there was very little which could be done to hold her back anyway. She would have felt no pity if it had come to exacting revenge for her brother’s current state, for making the young shoot of a man feel exactly all the emotional as well as physical pain that her brother had been through.

Beatrice was closer now, somehow managing to move her way past the boy’s chaperone like an eel through the roping of a net, and was looming as a mountain would, a mountain filled with a fire from the very entrails of the earth, ready to let forth a surge of searing heat which would destroy anything in its wake: lie-apologies, half-kept promises of repentance, any form of possible, furthered prejudice…

“H-Hello...”

The sound was slight, nothing more than a whisper, but it filled all given space, as if it had been pronounced in the empty opera-house. All eyes went to him, to the cherrywood-haired boy standing at the threshold of the doorway, knees trembling, the only thing keeping him from falling being his hand pressed against the wall. He was pale, he was sickly, but he was _there_ , and by his very presence he had buried the dangerous embers of a potential argument under a cool, pacifying amount of earth.

“Hi Winny,” said Beatrice, slightly tersely but not enough to be sensed in the generally relieved atmosphere which had fallen over the small group. The boy that she had addressed did not look in her direction, not even once, as he was more or less completely focussed on the person that her tsunami of rage had been directed towards not even seconds ago.

Jonathan looked up, and his eyes met the other boy’s. Something about the way they both reacted when they did so made Beatrice think that whatever had happened had not been down to a mere case of bullying, like it had been in the past. No, they both flinched, and surprisingly it was not his all-fearing brother who looked away the first. Sure, there was awkwardness and shame in the other boy’s posture, repentance, which in itself was already not something Beatrice was sure to have ever seen in any of her brother’s past tormentors before, but there was also some kind of… Sweetness. They were both scared, for sure, but Beatrice knew, somehow, that if they were in any other situation, they would have surely smiled.

A few seconds passed before Sherwin dared raise his hand and give a little wave, one which Jonathan returned almost immediately, gingerly shuffling his hands behind his back so as to keep whatever he was hiding there hidden. The dark-haired boy looked quickly in the adult’s direction, not at anyone in particular, but with an expression on his face which asked for some sort of permission. The woman who had accompanied him gave a curt nod, giving her approval in a way that could be seen in the boy’s peripheral vision. He gave a short nod back, the merest of vertical head-shakes, before turning back to Sherwin.

It was fascinating to watch, and somewhat painful too, as he closed his eyes and took in a few deep breaths. Finally, he braced himself, letting his eyes fall to the floor and bringing the hidden bouquet he had been hiding behind his back all this time in plain view. He swallowed nervously, and as gentle as a summer breeze, he offered the small bouquet to the redhead boy, trying not to take a step back as he did. Sherwin didn’t make a move to take it. He remained still, his waxy features and immobility making him seem even more statuesque than he had been before. Again, Jonathan tried offering the flowers, seeming more desperate now, his brow scrunching up in despair.

Sherwin still didn’t move. There was nothing that could be done, it seemed, to snap him out of his emotionless, static state. More time went by, and Beatrice was starting to get worried. The small movement she made, the very will she had to go forward and take her brother by the shoulders and separate him from the stressful threat of social expectations, seemed to be all he needed to make his own decision, however. All he needed was a little encouragement, the insurance that someone would have his back, no matter what.

He rushed forward, and not minding the floral gift, he tightly embraced the other boy. With his face covered by his hair, one could not judge his expression easily, however the slight quiver in his shoulders and the tiny darkened patches on the floor where tears landed were telling enough of his current emotional state.

“Well,” started the well-to-do lady, her words the first to dare cut through the silence of the room. “Jonathan, maybe you and… Sherwin should resolve these matters alone.”

Finally, the redhead looked up, although not enough to unveil his eyes, and gave a quick nod of approval. Hesitantly, clearly scared to have either damaged the flowers or the one gifting them, he loosened his grip and moved away, taking one small step back, moving towards the kitchen’s exit. With his head held high and a kindly smile on his face, the boy named Jonathan followed, the flash of his eyes shining with tears telling of his own emotion in light of the reunion.

Soon, they were gone. The kitchen felt empty, and the silence had yet again fallen, as the adults looked at each other awkwardly, and Michael at the rough table’s surface. Fortunately, his mum, as always, had a foil to this situation.

“Does anyone want tea?”

* * *

 

This was definitely not something that he had been expecting. His body was still weakened, still trembling, and the emotional stress of seeing Jonathan once more had not exactly helped his state. Sherwin was exhausted, yet he felt none of this in the slightest.

As much as his body and soul should have been a slow, melancholy and sleepy cello part, as it had been for the last few hours, he could not quite help but instead feel the bouncing, nervous feeling of col legno notes, although louder than they would have been if made by a single instrument. They only became stronger as he led Jonathan deeper into the house, away from any prying ears that could have potentially listened in on them.

However, as he stopped in front of his bedroom door, he wasn’t sure exactly what they would have to say to each other. Everything had been shown in actions already, as far as Sherwin could grasp, but there was still a niggling feeling, an irritatingly out of tune string in the grand orchestra of his soul, that told him that there was in fact one last thing to be done. Something to tie the knot on this situation, a single conclusive chord to finish off this dramatic piece. Jonathan’s mentor was right. There was a conversation to be had, thoughts and actions to be admitted, explained, owed up to.

This struck him like a bolt of lighting, or an unexpected clap of cymbals, rather. He had to explain his actions, admit to them properly and maybe offer an apology rather than running endlessly from his mistakes.

The room was dark and smelled musty. It was normal, considering he only ever lived in it during the weekends, but he had never really noticed it until then. It was embarrassing, but there was not much to be done about it now. He walked over to the bed and tried straightening the sheets, trying to push back the moment when he would have to speak to Jonathan. He gestured to the single, old and worn armchair in a corner of the room. It was covered in dust and looked out of place here, the carpet-like floral pattern more at home in a living room of mismatched furniture rather than a young boy’s bedroom, but he knew for a fact that it was the most comfortable place to sit, and way less conspicuous than if he’d offered the other boy the bed he now plopped himself down upon. He blushed at the thought, his eyes forever downcast since they had left the kitchen. There was no way to back down now.

Again, the room went silent. It was so much worse than the kitchen had been, questions and tension in the air thrumming so much stronger than before. It was only them. Sherwin couldn’t help himself: subconsciously, he started humming gently, filling the space between and around them with a small melody, a melody of before, holding the stamp of nostalgia despite the fact that it had only been… Weeks? Days? Since they had first met. It was but a few chords, but they resonated in him. They were a constant, something he could link to times filled with trust that had since been broken.

Jonathan’s presence remained just as strong in the room, but slowly, Sherwin calmed down and learned to accept him being there. It was not the end. The gift of flowers were very clearly indicative of that fact. All it would take was a handful of words to clear the air and to, hopefully, restore what had been lost. Even just looking up from where his hands were held in his lap would be a step forward.

He couldn’t. There was no way he could bring himself to do that. He had gone too far, and with his throat tied and his mind awash with heavy, suffocating guilt, he could not bring himself to open himself more to this incredible person; he had seen everything there was to see in him, he had come into his home and his sanctuary, made sure he was safe… He had only one thing left to offer, he only had to open his mouth and apologise.

Why was this so difficult?

His voice wavered, the notes becoming distorted, just like his vision. Tears welled in his eyes and spilled over. There was nothing he could do anymore other than hope, pray that this boy would have the kindness to let him go, to abandon him and to return to his career. It was for the best. Sherwin deserved to be forgotten.

A sound, the rustle of paper and the tap of footsteps on the floorboards, and _he_ was by his side. He knelt before him and held his freckled, large and ugly hands in his own, with those callouses that he had somehow perfectly memorised the shape of from that one time he had held them in his own. Those hands squeezed his own tightly, then one, then the other slid up and cupped Sherwin’s cheeks in their warm, interesting in their mix of softness and roughness. He looked up, surprised, not being able to stop himself from doing so. This kind of contact was as unexpected, it was tender and not of Sherwin’s volition, but rather of Jonathan’s. Did this mean that he still trusted him? That despite his… _action_ , he still held him in a certain regard?

It was torturous, really. Jonathan could just as well be doing this to punish him. Feeling him so close, as close as he had been before, but still remaining so far… Just out of his reach… His eyes so blue, his skin so perfect, his lips so soft…

Tears started brimming again, and he tried to pull away. This was embarrassing, he was seeing Sherwin at his very worst, pale, sickly, blush ugly and patchy and bright from the pianist’s presence. His heart was going wild, a drum roll, only becoming more intense as time went on, as if it knew the finale that was coming along, as if it knew what was about to befall him. Jonathan could probably feel his quickening heartbeat under his fingers too, as his smile gained that little tilt to it, the one that left Sherwin’s mind as blank as were most of his sheet music.

“You really are the most amazing person I have ever met, Sherwin.”

And with that, he closed the distance between them and pressed their lips together. Sherwin watched it coming without having time to process anything, all his thoughts, even his emotions halting between the moment those words were pronounced and a little after Jonathan’s amazing, amazing lips touched his. Then, he realised two things: his whole body felt completely out of sync, as if all the instruments in the orchestra of his own were scrambling to make some kind of melody out of this new stimulation, this was the best moment he had ever experienced in his short, difficult life.

Jonathan. He liked him back. His heart sang a melody that coincided with his own. Sherwin had not been the only one to feel this connection, instrumental and yet needing no instrument to be conveyed, musical without any sound being transmitted through the air, beautiful without requiring embellishment. His heart eventually stuttered back to life, thrumming in his chest as if it wanted to escape his small ribcage, and he let the moment last as long as it will. Jonathan held his face as if it were made of china, not minding the sticky tears staining his perfect, cool hands. Hesitantly, Sherwin let his hands cover the other boy’s, as gentle as he could. He had always been assimilated to an oaf, clumsy and awkward and not suited for this kind of delicate attention, but to his surprise, he didn’t shatter Jonathan. Of course he was stronger than the triangle player was, but it was the moment in itself that was fragile.

They did part, eventually, and Sherwin was again surprised by how cold the world felt without Jonathan close. It nearly felt unnatural, to not feel their heartbeats line up and sync together as would a chord. His loss was quickly redeemed however by the entry of the twin sapphires in his own line of sight, beautiful and comforting and everything he had ever wished for.

His thumbs gently rubbed at the redhead’s cheeks, pushing away the tears, wiping them from where they carved red, slightly puffy rivulets through the maze of freckles across Sherwin’s face and that he had always hated, even in this moment. He tried to pull away, but he stopped quickly, reminding himself not to break the moment and simply relaxed. Those blue eyes pulled him in, becoming considerably less blurry as his tears dried up.

This revealed to him that the pianist’s eyes also looked somewhat moist. His reaction was instantaneous: he brought his hands up to Jonathan’s face and held his cheeks as he was doing to him. Those musician’s hands fell from the now worried redhead’s face and hung limply by Jonathan’s sides, the smile that he had been struggling to maintain since they had kissed now wobbling and soon melting away to a desperate, tortured expression, filled to the brim with self-doubt and hurt more profound that Sherwin could probably never grasp.

He guided Jonathan to sit by his side, not caring for protocol any longer. His hands worked desperately, caressing Jonathan’s cheeks and saying quiet, small and gentle words to reassure him. All Sherwin could do was try his best to console him. His intent had been to owe up to his mistakes, but it seemed that this was not the same issue that Jonathan had decided to visit him for. He had his own weight on his heart, and this was probably the reason for which he had decided to visit him in the first place.

“Please tell me, please Jonathan…”

The tears had ceased flowing as much. They both looked into each other’s eyes, sitting side by side on this unmade bed in this musty bedroom, the contact between them as slight as the one of a clarinet’s reed and the body of the instrument itself. Sherwin’s hands now hovered Jonathan’s cheeks, only able to feel the tickle of the boy’s peach fuzz against his palms. Those eyes… He couldn’t stand to see them filled with so much fear. It was so uncharacteristic of the usually self-assured boy, something that he very easily admitted shocked Sherwin.

“Why?”

He didn’t pull away. Sherwin had expected him to, at some point, but that moment failed to come at all. Instead, he wrapped his arms around the triangle player’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

“I’m afraid. This is not who I thought I was.”

Those words went to Sherwin’s brain faster than any music would, and struck him with immediate confusion. What could he possibly mean by that? He wasn't a pianist? He wasn't meant for music, had Sherwin been led along all this time, his emotions getting the better of him and showing him a connection that in fact wasn't there?

He was starting to panic a little now, his hands falling to his lap and twisting around each other. What had that... kiss meant to Jonathan? Was it an apology? A last "sorry" before he left him, abandoning what the redhead had thought they had created before going back to his career?

"Do you mean..."

He looked up to see the pianist shake his head. His eyes had turned back to their steady selves, but were still full of emotion, full of something that Sherwin now did not believe he could have doubted, even for the length of a single bar. There, beyond the perfect dark circle ringed with blue, he saw reflected there an orchestra of his own. An orchestra, that despite Sherwin's nerves and doubts and fears, spelled out exactly the same song that sung his own heart.

"I didn't know that I was so much like you."

Immediately, all the pain that had happened to each of them melted away, as did the final chords in an orchestra of thousands in their very last movement, and again they closed the space between themselves, in unison, eyes no longer needed and words even less so as they simply held each other, and let their music meld once more into their very own melody, the one of their hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there everyone, I've been very ill and hospitalised, as well as having to cut contact with my entire family. I've also taken on a double major, so that's a thing. Hoping I'll be able to get back into the writing groove in time though.  
> Have a good day!


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